


If I Was Free To Do The Things I Might

by bellagerantalii



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Anxiety, Character Death, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Jack, Rated For Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12961338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellagerantalii/pseuds/bellagerantalii
Summary: Jack Zimmermann is a Canadian paratrooper who wants to prove himself (and his country) in a world war. Eric Bittle is an American medic with a bit of an attitude. This is what happens when their worlds collide.





	1. April, 1948

**Author's Note:**

> My friends asked me for a historically accurate WWII AU, and this is what they got. Did I slack on my actual master's degree coursework to research this? You bet your ass I did. 
> 
> This work takes place almost entirely on battlefields. There are graphic depictions of death, and some character deaths. I'll post more detailed notes in each chapter with more specific warnings.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hang up any pictures? I hate the idea of you rattling around in this empty place,” Alicia says, taking another forlorn look at Jack’s walls. They’re not bare, well, not exactly. There’s a photograph of the lake behind their family home in Montreal hanging over the fireplace, and a family photograph hanging above the sofa. A couple of old pottery plates that Alicia bought in an antique store last time she visited ornament the nook where a round dining table is stashed, and she knows that the small collection of Degas sketches she picked up at one of the Soviet sales hang in Jack’s bedroom. Still, the place feels bare.

“You ask that every time you visit, Maman,” Jack says, something like a fond smile appearing on his face. “I’ll just have to take them down to put up more bookshelves.”

Alicia looks around the room. There are several dark wooden bookcases dotting the space, but it’ll be awhile before Jack has to put up any more. 

“I can’t wait until you have your own office,” Alicia says, rolling her eyes and chuckling. “Then you’ll have to keep all of your books there, and then you can hang more photos and at least pretend you live here.”

“Speaking of my office, I should get going,” Jack says, glancing at his watch. “I have to teach a class for Professor Statham. But I’ll see you back here at five?”

“Sounds lovely. Our reservations at the Parker aren’t until seven,” Alicia says, pulling on her coat and gloves. “I’m going to continue my tradition of finding something you pretend to love to hang on your wall.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jack agrees, shrugging on his own coat and hat. Alicia remembers buying him the coat before the War. It hangs loosely on him now, just big enough to be noticeable.

They leave the apartment building and walk the few blocks to Harvard Yard, where they part ways. Jack disappears through the gate, swallowed up by the red brick buildings, and Alicia ambles along, ducking in and out of the various antique stores that dot Cambridge. 

Nothing looks promising. Usually she buys Jack something that he’ll eventually realize he likes, like the pottery or the Degas sketches. But all that the Cambridge antique dealers seem to offer are dusty, heavy oil paintings. 

After she’s seen her fifth hunting scene, she gives up. Maybe she’ll get Jack a clock. But then she thinks of the _tick tock, tick tock_ sound that will fill the bare apartment, and she thinks better of it.

She plops ungracefully onto a bench on the square, and a moment later gets a flash of inspiration. 

Rushing back to Jack’s apartment, she uses his spare key to let herself in. If she’s right, Jack keeps his old camera in his bedroom closet. If she can find it, figure out what film it uses, and polish it up a bit, maybe she can get him snapping pictures like crazy again. He used to do it all the time, before… Well, before the War.

Alicia spots the camera box on the back of the top shelf in his closet. She has to stand on her toes to get it, but she does, and manages to do so without upsetting the contents of the box. 

She brings it out into the living room, and reverently lifts the lid. 

Inside is her son’s old camera, the one that used to hang around his neck constantly from Christmas of 1938 to just before he left to join the army. Maybe Alicia could get him a new one, one that accepted color film, maybe--

There are pictures in the box, too. A whole stack of them. Of men in uniform. From the War. But Jack didn’t take his camera when he shipped out, he didn’t--

Alicia knows she probably shouldn’t be looking at these. 

She carefully unwraps the rubber band holding the bundle together. 

It looks like these were taken on the brief leave Jack got in Paris. That was in the fall of ‘44, Alicia knew that much. How Jack had gotten ahold of a camera she doesn’t know, but…

She recognizes a couple of the people. One of them is Shitty. Shitty, Jack’s best friend from Samwell. Shitty, who in these pictures is clean shaven, a captain’s insignia glinting on his hat. Shitty, who still isn’t allowed to talk about what he did in the War. Unlike her son, who won’t. Can’t, maybe. Can’t is probably the better term.

In one picture, Shitty is laughing, clearly enjoying his beer in a Paris bistro. His arm is draped casually around a woman, who looks amused at Shitty’s antics and somehow incredibly stylish, despite wartime rationing. It must be Larissa, Shitty’s new fiancé. They met during the War when Larissa was an artist in Paris. When Jack talks about Larissa, a fond, quiet smile appears on his face.

Alicia decides she loves Larissa.

Through the stack of photos she goes, putting faces to names. That’s Ransom and Holster, Jack’s NCOs. Alicia’s met them once or twice. 

In almost all the photos, there’s a fair-haired man with a turned up nose. He’s smiling, exuding warmth. He’s almost always the focus of the shot. 

Alicia gets to the last picture. The fair-haired man has his head thrown back in laughter, and Alicia notices for the first time the white band with the red cross over the left arm of his uniform. 

Alicia thinks she knows who he is. 

She glances back into the box, just to see if there are more. There’s a thin brown paper bag, the kind that bakers put pastries in. She lifts it out of the box, and takes out the three photos inside.

One picture is of the fair haired man in profile. He’s leaning on something, and the sun is setting behind him, giving him a halo of light. 

The second photo is of the same man again. He’s beaming with delight down at the croissant on his plate.

The third photo captures him probably seconds later. He’s looking at the camera now. The delight is still there, but now it’s directed at whoever is behind the camera.

Alicia knows who he is.

By now she’s sitting on the thick rug she bought Jack when he had first moved in. All of the pictures are spread out in front of her. The ones of the fair-haired man are closest to her, and as she looks at all the photographs she keeps her hand on the very edge of the third photo.

And then she hears Jack’s key scraping in the lock.

“What did you buy me this time?” Jack begins as he pushes the door open. “Not one of those old Puritan--”

But he stops as he fully enters the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a bang. 

“What are you doing with those?” Jack asks, his voice quiet. Alicia’s heart breaks as she watches her son’s face turn to cold stone.

She should explain herself. She should explain herself and apologize. Instead, she looks down at the photo she’s holding, the one where the fair-haired man is looking at whoever’s behind the camera with an impossible amount of warmth and love. She looks back up at her son.

“Is this Bittle?”


	2. 6 June, 1944 (D-Day)

“We’re not in the drop zone,” Jack concludes, emerging from under the raincoat he’s jerry rigged into a tent to hide the beam of his flashlight. He and his platoon are sheltered under a copse of trees separating two fields. “We were dropped about two miles south of the rendezvous,” he says, addressing his men. 

There aren’t many of them left. Two of the planes carrying the company took hits before half of the men could make the jump, one of them crashing in a ball of flame in some Norman field. Now they’re two miles south of their rendezvous, four from their objective, at maybe half strength. 

“How many men made the drop?” Jack asks his two sergeants. He should have three, but Jenkins is nowhere to be found.

“First section is at five men,” Sgt. Oluransi reports.

“Second section is at ten. Everyone made it and miraculously dropped close together,” Sgt. Birkholtz says next. 

“Only one’s reported from third section,” they both say in unison. 

“And Jenkins is nowhere to be found. That leaves us at twenty, including us.”

“What’re your orders, sir?” Birkholtz asks.

“We get to the assembly area, see if anyone else from the company shows up,” Jack decides. “Then we get to river and secure that bridgehead. Giroux will join first section, since third is lost. We’ll take this road,” Jack whispers, motioning towards the country path, “For about half a mile. We see any lights, hear any voices, we dive into the hedgerows. Then we’ll walk the ravine to get to the assembly area.”

“Understood,” Oluransi replies, and he and Birkholtz crawl away to relay Jack’s orders. In no time at all, what remains of fourth platoon is sneaking along Norman hedgerows, avoiding searchlights and roving Nazi patrols. Luck must be with them, because they’re not spotted while creeping along the road, and eventually they tumble down into the more sheltered ravine. 

The only light comes from the moon. Jack can see about fifty feet in front of him, but he’s relying on his hearing and his gut feeling more than vision at this point. So are the rest of the men, if their careful footsteps and hushed breathing is anything to go by. 

To his right, on the other side of the ravine, Jack hears a twig snap. Instantly, he kneels, holds his hand up, and the rest of the platoon follows suit. He motions for everyone to back up into the tangle of short trees at their back, aiming his rifle at the source of the noise.

 _Please let it be an animal._ Jack prays. He wants his platoon to distinguish themselves, hell, he wants to distinguish _himself_ in this invasion, but he doesn’t want to do it while they’re at half strength with no idea where the rest of their company is. 

The sound is coming from the trees that line the slopes of the opposite side of the ravine, but now, instead of a twig snapping, all Jack hears is a click click sound. It sounds almost like a bug’s chirp, but not quite. To his trained ear, it sounds metallic. A soft _click clack_. 

_It’s a German patrol_ is Jack’s first instinct. But it doesn’t quite sound like a rifle being prepped, or a machine gun nest being assembled. He holds up his hand again, signaling for his men to wait, but be ready to fire.

 _What the hell is that clicking._ It follows a pattern. One click. A long pause. Another click. Then a pause. The pauses between the clicks are getting shorter and shorter.

Jack should order his men to open fire-- there’s obviously someone there, someone who isn’t a Canadian paratrooper. But something tells him to wait--- he doesn’t want to give away his position, and there’s no way they can take whoever’s in the bushes out quietly.

Finally, the clicking stops. A moment later, the bushes rustle, and a voice, an accented voice, whispers “Flash?”

Flash is definitely not the corps codeword Jack and his company were briefed on before they took off from England.

Jack motions for his men to get ready to fire. He aims his own rifle at the voice, and is just about to fire when he hears Birkholtz frantically fake-whisper behind him. “Thunder!”

“Oh, thank the lord,” comes the accented voice again. Jack can’t place it, but it’s definitely not German. The body the voice belongs to crawls out of the undergrowth, inching toward the more open part of the ravine. “We thought we’d lost everyone.”

The body isn’t carrying a rifle, but the man is weighed down by the bags hanging off his shoulders. There’s a white band on his arm that Jack can just barely see, and he thinks he can just make out the outline of a red medic’s cross.

“Who are you?” Jack asks, motioning for his men to hold their positions before signing for Birkholtz to come up towards him. 

“I’m a paratrooper, like y’all,” the voice says, unease replacing the relief in his voice. “Or at least, I thought y’all were American paratroopers.”

“We’re Canadian,” Birkholtz pipes up. “We were assigned different code words from you. You’re 101st, right?”

“If you’re Canadian, how did you know the correct response?” the American medic asks, ignoring the question with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t ask how Birkholtz knows things, he just does,” Jack sighs, straightening up and crawling out from the brush. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Eric Bittle, sir,” Bittle says, trying to salute Jack from his crouch once he sees his lieutenant’s insignia. “101st Airborne.”

“Let me see your dog tag,” Jack says. The medic reaches down the front of his shirt and pulls out the metal tags around his neck.

Using the moonlight, and remaining conscious of every sound around him, Jack takes a look. They’re authentic. Still, they could have been stolen.

“Get on your back,” Jack commands, dropping the tags.

“Excuse me?”

“Get on your back, doc.”

This time, Bittle does as he’s told. Jack can’t see any patches of blood on his front. 

“Roll over.”

Bittle huffs, but he does as he’s told. No blood on his back, either.

“Alright. Tell your friends to come out of the bushes and over to our side,” Jack says, slinking back into the bushes. Bittle nods, getting back on his knees, and motions to whoever else is crouched in the bushes. Two other men emerge, and they crawl with Bittle and Birkholtz to the other side of the ravine.

“What was all that for?” asks a private. A Chinese private. Well, Chinese-American. If Jack had any further doubts about who these soldiers were, they're gone now. 

“If you were Germans who killed Americans for their uniforms there’d be evidence. You men really missed your drop zone,” Jack says when everyone is gathered closer. “Are you all 101st?”

“Yes, sir. Third battalion of the 506 regiment, H company,” a private with red hair clarifies. He, at least, seems satisfied with Jack’s explanation. 

“We’re about fifty miles from where they were supposed to drop us,” the other private adds, more wonderingly than bitter. 

“No one else in our plane made it,” Bittle says, and now that he’s closer, Jack notices that the medic has what looks like a burn licking the side of his face.

“Are you injured?” Jack asks.

“Just’a minor burn. Barely even feel it,” Bittle whispers, shrugging his soldiers. “I have supplies in my pack if it gets too bad, but I’d rather save it ‘case someone else needs it.”

Jack nods, understanding. The burn is noticeable in the moonlight, but it doesn’t look too bad. And Bittle isn’t acting like he’s in any pain. 

“I know I’m not technically your CO, but the chances of the three of you making it fifty miles to your rendezvous are slim. We’re only about a mile out from ours. Stay with us, and maybe we can get you a transport somewhere.”

“Yes, sir,” the three Americans whisper in unison. 

Jack motions for them to slip into the middle of the line. He won’t put them on the end or up front. One, he doesn’t want to get Americans killed on his watch. That would only cause problems. Two, Jack has no idea just how skilled they are. He’s not going to entrust the safety of his company to soldiers he literally just met, even if they are fellow paratroopers.

The new, slightly enlarged platoon creeps silently along the ravine, pausing twice more when they hear trucks rumbling along the road above them. 

Their rendezvous point, outside the town of Varaville, is mercifully devoid of enemy troops. Once Jack finds the rest of D Company, including the second and third platoon commanders, he goes to find Captain Hall, his Company CO.

Except Captain Hall is nowhere to be found. 

So he manages to find Lieutenant Colonel Bradbrooke, the battalion commanding officer.

“Zimmermann,” Bradbrooke whispers, looking up from a map he’s studying. “How’s D’s First Platoon?”

“We’re one section down, sir. And we lost our medic.” Jack responds, snapping a salute. “But we picked up three Americans from the 101st, including an American medic.”

“Americans? All the way out here?” Bradbrooke says, looking up with concern. Are you sure they’re not Germans?”

“They knew the codewords for the 101st. And they had these… crickets? Little metal devices.”

“And how did you know the codes for the 101st?” 

“One of my NCOs is American and has a buddy in the 101st,” Jack replies, hoping that the last part is true. 

“Birkholtz?”

“Yes, Birkholtz.”

“Every man in the 101st was issued crickets,” Bradbrooke continues. “Just wish the Americans had thought to share their brain-wave with the rest of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s no way we can get them back to their drop zones tonight, or probably even tomorrow. I’ll radio HQ to let them know we’ve picked them up and incorporated them into D Company. If they’re here, they might as well fight, and you lost your medic in the drop,” Hall decides. “What are their names.”

“The medic’s name is Bittle. I didn’t get the names of the other two. They’re H company, 506th regiment, third battalion.” 

“You didn’t think to get all their names?” 

“No, sir,” _We didn’t have time. Or cover,_ Jack thinks. 

“It’ll have to do. I have to call HQ now. We’re moving out in thirty minutes to take the Divette bridge north of Varaville. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. Have you seen Captain Hall?”

Bradbrooke’s face darkens.

“He’s not with the rest of D Company?”

“No, sir.”

Bradbrooke pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We can’t wait for him. If he doesn’t show up by the time we push out, you’re the D Company commander, Zimmermann. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says. His chest tightens-- whether it’s from fear or adrenaline, he can’t say.

“Then you’re dismissed. Let me know if Hall shows up.”

Jack salutes Bradbrooke, who salutes back, and he goes off to find his company.

“I don’t think I properly introduced myself earlier,” Jack says, squatting down next to Bittle, who’s munching on a k-ration next to his two privates. “I’m Lieutenant Jack Zimmermann.”

“Corporal Eric Bittle,” Bittle replies.

“Private William Poindexter,” the soldier with red hair says, adding a salute. Jack acknowledges it.

“Private Christopher Chow,” the one with the earnest face provides.

“My Battalion CO informs me that there’s no way we can get you back to the 101st anytime soon. Until we can, you’ll be joining my platoon, since I’m down a medic and a full section.”

“And your CO is letting our division know? I don’t want my parents thinking I’m dead,” Bittle says.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bradbrooke is doing his best to get in touch with someone who can get in touch with the 101st.”

“So that means my mama’s gonna get a ‘missing in action’ telegram,” Bittle says, with an accusatory note in his voice. 

Jack wouldn’t take this kind of thing from his own men. It's edging towards insubordination, and it is completely inappropriate, especially in combat. What does this corporal _expect_? Things happen in combat, and some thing _can't_ happen in combat. Like letting everyone stateside know where their sons and husbands are every minute of ever battle. 

But these men weren’t under his command two hours ago. Hell, Jack's not even sure if this whole situation is entirely legal. 

So he’ll make some allowances. Just this once. As long as Bittle doesn’t mouth off when they actually take fire.

“I’m your new CO, Bittle. Like it or not, you need to treat me as such,” Jack says, watching Bittle bristle at the reprimand. “But if you can follow me, we can try and make sure the MIA notice is the worst thing your mother gets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I put Holster in the Canadian Army, you ask? Well, I didn't like the thought of breaking up our dynamic duo. So I've decided that when Canada went to war in 1939, Holster jumped the border and joined the Canadian Army. Putting them both in the Canadian Army was also the only way to make sure Ransom and Holster could be in the same combat unit. The Canadian Army, unlike the US Army, wasn't officially segregated. 
> 
> That's also why Nursey isn't with his fellow Frogs. The US Army didn't desegregate until after the War, so most African-American soldiers were put in supply units. Nursey will come up later in this story. Chinese Americans in the US military were treated as a sort of special case, as China was technically an Allied nation fighting against Japan. There was still rampant discrimination in the ranks, though.
> 
> And finally, Lt. Colonel Bradbrooke was a real person! For this fic, I created a new company (D Company) in the Canadian Parachute Battalion for Jack to command.


	3. April, 1948

“How do you know about Bittle?” Jack stutters. His eyes are blown wide now, like a deer caught in the headlights.

“You talk in your sleep, baby. You have nightmares.” Alicia says slowly, frightened that one word wrong might spook Jack.

Jack’s eyes go even wider, and he looks afraid.

“Oh sweetie, no. Please don’t--”

“What did I say?”

Alicia isn’t sure what to say to that.

“You should sit down. I’m going to make us some tea,” she decides. 

“What did I _say_?”

“Nothing bad, sweetie. Well, nothing that would change how much your papa and I love you. But Jack,” Alicia says, striding forward and taking his hand. “You must be in so much pain.”

And her son melts. His eyelids drop like they’re suddenly carrying a terrible weight. His shoulders relax for the first time in years, but then they slump. The rest of his body follows suit, and it looks to Alicia like Jack’s heart is just going to fall out of him.

“It’s okay, sweetie, it’s okay,” she says, wrapping her son in her arms. Long gone are the days where Alicia was able to pick him up and rest him on her hip. She can’t do that anymore, but she can gently guide her son to his couch and try to make things a little easier. She holds him for another moment, but then stands, goes to the kitchen, and puts a kettle on the stove for tea. She hears rustling on the couch-- it sounds like Jack taking off his coat.

She returns to the living room a few minutes later, holding two sturdy, steaming mugs of tea. Jack has indeed taken off his coat-- he’s even hung it in the closet, though he hasn’t bothered to close the closet door. Somehow it looks like a tremendous weight has been lifted off of his shoulders, but he still looks heartbroken.

“So.. What did I say?” Jack asks again, accepting the mug from Alicia.

“At first it was just his name,” Alicia admits. “And then it was his name and a lot of ‘No, Bittle, please, no, anyone but Bittle,’ and you would cry. In your sleep you would cry.” Just thinking about it brings tears to Alicia’s eyes. “But sometimes, sometimes you sounded so happy. You called him Bits, or Eric. And there were other times when, well… I’m sure you remember those.”

Jack blushes a deep scarlet, and buries his face in his mug of tea, even though it’s still scalding hot. 

“Did you love him?” Alicia asks, once Jack’s emerged. 

“Yes,” Jack says after a moment. Not for the first time, Alicia marvels about how brave her son is. He’s looking her straight in the eye. He’s afraid, but he’s not ashamed.

“I’m so glad you found someone, Jack. Even if… Even if the war had to cut it short. I’m so glad you found someone you can love. And who loved you back.”

“How do you know he..?”

“This photograph says it all,” she says, holding up the one of Bittle in the cafe.

“And you’re not… You’re not angry?”

“Oh Jack, of course I’m not. How long have I worked on Broadway?”

Jack snorts out a laugh. “I like women, too, sometimes.”

“Again, how long have I worked on Broadway? Jack, I’m going to love you and support you no matter who you love.”

“And Papa?”

“Your dad does, too. We can call him, if you want.”

“No, no. It’s okay.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes. Alicia’s tea is finally drinkable, and she sips half of before she decides to speak again. 

“What was he like?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time. We'll be hopping back to Jack and Alicia every other chapter.


	4. D-Day, 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of combat violence, and some minor character death.

“Our objective is to take the Chateau de Varaville while B Company secures the bridgehead,” Jack begins, speaking the entire D company. Six hours ago, he’d expected Captain Hall to be giving this speech. Now Jack is the one doing it as the acting company commander.

“The chateau is fortified with a machine gun nest, an anti-tank gun, trenches, two bunkers, and mines, but we need to take it out to secure the bridge. First platoon will focus on the main machine gun nest, second and third, you take the bunkers. Once we get those secured, we’ll break through the front doors of the chateau itself and eliminate the German soldiers in there. C company will take care of the gatehouse and the anti-tank guns, and hopefully provide us with cover.”

His men nod in agreement, and before his sergeants disperse to organize everyone further, Jack gives them a final word.

“This is our chance to prove ourselves. When we take this objective, we want everyone to know that Canadians can more than pull their weight in this war. We move out in ten minutes.”

Jack goes over some final strategic points with Martin and Dawes, the COs of second and third platoon. He’s put Oluransi in charge of first for now, though Jack will be taking the machine gun nest with them. 

He looks around to see if there’s anything he missed, and that’s when he sees Bittle, standing off to the side and looking him up and down, his arms crossed. 

“You need something, Doc?” Jack asks. 

“You do realize that you have three Americans in your company now, right?”

_Crisse_ , Jack thinks. _Do American paratroopers just skip combat discipline lessons at bootcamp?_

“Four, actually,” Jack says. “Birkholtz hopped the border in ‘39, when the US was still dragging its feet.”

“Birkholtz is from Buffalo. He’s _practically_ Canadian.” 

Jack cannot believe this little shit.

“This is a Canadian paratrooper unit. We’re here to fight for our own freedom, and we don’t need our hands held by Britain or the United States. If you’re not okay with that, you can stay behind.”

“You think I’m gonna leave Chowder and Dex? Uh-uh, not on your life. And I’m not going to leave your boys without a medic, either,” Bittle retorts, crossing his arms. 

“Bittle,” Jack spits, striding over and closing the space between them, until he’s right in his face. “I don’t care if you’re American. If you’re planning to continue this behavior on the battlefield, then you need to stay here,” Jack says, grinding his teeth. He doesn’t yell, but it’s a near thing. 

At this, Bittle looks a little stunned. But he mumbles “Yes, sir,” glumly, and turns around to join Chow and Poindexter.

...

With his stomach on the wet ground, Jack peers through his binoculars, sweeping over the open field surrounding the chateau. There’s a barbed wire fence surrounding most of it, but Jack’s company has shears that can take care of it. Beyond the fence are two anti-tank guns and a machine gun nest, plus mines that Jack and his men have no way of seeing. The chateau itself doesn’t appear to have any guns, but there are several locations that could hold a sniper.

He shoves the binoculars back in their case, grabs his rifle, and gives the signal to advance. Beard crawls forward and deftly cuts away an opening in the barbed wire.

All of a sudden, Jack is in the chateau grounds. So’s the rest of his company.

And bullets are flying all around them. 

Most seem to be coming from the gatehouse at one end of the driveway, but it’s not long before the anti-tank gun comes roaring to life, sending a shell towards where D company is pouring through the barbed wire fence. Jack dives, hits the ground; hears the shell make impact with the wet ground somewhere behind him, and feels dirt hitting his back. 

But he gets up. He doesn’t hear anyone moaning, doesn’t hear any frantic, desperate calls of “Medic!” from behind him. 

The machine gun nest in front of him is set in a trench, and Jack can just barely see Germans rushing around in it. They’re hunched over, though, so the trench must be shallow. Camouflage netting, with branches stuck into the top, hides the actual machine gun from a distance. With how close he is now, though, Jack can see the flash of sparks every time the weapon discharges.

He hits the ground again, this time at the base of the small slope in front of the nest. Just like they planned, most of his men come up with him. 

He signals for Birkholtz to take first section and approach the nest from the left. Olouransi will take second section and flank the target. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Bittle, his face smeared with dirt, looking determined and focused. 

They ascend the slope, the machine gunner spraying everywhere he can reach with bullets. They have to do their best to neutralize the gunner before the majority of the platoon makes it into the nest. They’ll be sitting ducks, even if they manage to take out all the other German soldiers in the trench. 

So Jack uses the slope as much to his advantage as he can. While his men jump into the trench, he crawls up the slope until he’s just out of the gunner’s field of vision and lines up his rifle.

In that fraction of a minute, the gunner sees him. But Jack shoots first.

He doesn’t wait to see if the bullet hits, just drops back down. Not that hiding will do much good if he missed. The man behind the machine gun knows he’s there now.

But then Jack hears a sharp “Schisse!” and a yelp of pain. So he pops back up, shoots again. 

He’s not met by a shower of machine gun bullets, so he rushes forward, practically diving into the trench. Someone in a coal-scuttle helmet comes at him. He dodges the bayonet that’s thrust towards his chest, hits his attacker with the butt of his rifle. The man hits the ground, and Jack shoots him in the chest before he has a chance to get back up. 

And then Birkholtz comes rushing in from his right. Olouransi from his left.

“I need TNT!” Jack calls. Bertrand, their demo man, rushes forward, almost tripping over himself. Together he and Jack stuff the barrel of the machine gun with the explosives, Bertrand sets them off with a BANG and it’s not as loud as Jack expects it to be. But the barrel of the gun is bent beyond repair-- no German will be able to come back and use it if Jack and his men can’t hold this ground. 

“How are we?” Jack asks, surprised to find himself breathless.

“Meedle took a bullet to his hand, but Bittle’s patching him up now. Should be fine until we can get him evaced,” Oluransi reports. 

“Desplat’s dead,” Birkholtz adds, his voice clipped. 

Jack nods. 

“Jordan, get up in that tree,” Jack says, addressing the best sharpshooter among his privates. “You’ll provide covering fire while we clear out the trenches surrounding the chateau. If snipers start shooting from the windows or roof of the chateau, take them out.”

He gives Birkholtz and Oluransi more instructions, and then they’re creeping out of the machine gun nest. The air around him is hazy with smoke, and for the first few seconds after leaving the trench, all Jack can hear are the sound of bullets whizzing around him, of the anti-tank gun, and explosions from the mines and shells. 

The light from the explosions illuminates the ground in front of him. It’s good, because he won’t accidentally fall into a trench. It’s bad, because if he can see where he is, the Germans can see, too.

Everything melts away when he makes it to the first trench. The only thing that’s left is a desire to not be killed. Not even that-- a desire to not die before he secures the objective.

He loses count of how many people he shoots.

At some point, when they’re hopping between trenches, a shell from an anti-tank gun lands close. Too close. It explodes and Jack hears a scream, followed by a sob and a whimper.

But they make it to the entryway of the chateau. They bust down the doors, stream inside with their rifles at the ready. They sweep the building to find a commander in the great hall, his hands up. 

Jack has Birkholtz, who thankfully knows some German, tie the man’s hands together, and march him through the house, showing Jack where his men and cache of weapons are hiding. 

In all, they take seven prisoners, and the chateau is surrendered. 

Outside, C company has neutralized the gatehouse. The anti-tank still firing. In the distance, Jack hears the sound of the nearby bridge exploding. 

Their objective is nearly secure, but Jack’s heart is still racing.

Because even though the chateau is secured, the woods around it are not. They’re still taking fire from Germans in the trees that they can’t see, even in the pre-dawn light. 

Jordan is still firing from the tree above the machine gun nest. 

Until he’s not. One second he’s firing, the next he’s tumbling from his perch in the branches of the tree. 

Before Jack can think, a blur of olive drab and white flashes past him. Bittle, the American medic, is running out of the sanctuary of the chateau and into the open field, towards where Jordan is lying spread eagle on the ground. 

He’s the fastest runner Jack’s ever seen, and the feat is even more impressive because of the amount of weight Bittle must be carrying. 

Bittle drops to his knees next to Jordan as bullets whiz around him, and Jack finally shakes himself back to his senses.

“I want people upstairs shooting from the windows now,” he orders. “Cover Bittle and Jordan, take out anyone in the woods you can.”

_Crisse, but why did all his mortar men have to go down in that last C-47?_

Just when his men start firing at the woods, Jack sees something that nearly makes his heart stop.

It’s like it’s happening in slow motion. The anti-tank gun turns away from its assault on the gatehouse in order to train its sights on Bittle and Jordan. The gun discharges with a flash of light, and seconds later, a shell slams into the ground only a few feet from the two soldiers.

In the explosion, Bittle goes flying.

_“Bittle,”_ Jack whispers, thinking of all the things that could happen. For a moment, he’s frozen, and then his feet start moving by themselves.

He runs. He finds Bittle at the bottom of the trench closest to the machine gun nest. He must have been blown almost twenty feet. He’s covered in dirt and mud, and his hair…

Oh god. His helmet. 

“Bittle,” Jack says, jumping down into the trench. “Bittle, can you hear me?”

Bittle is breathing, but he looks dazed.

“Lieutenant… Lieutenant Zimmermann?” he says, trying to get to his feet.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Jack says. “If you’re lucky it’s just a concussion, _MEDIC_ ,” he cries.

But no medic is going to come, because Bittle is their medic.

Sergeant Oluransi does come, though.

“I have some medical training,” he says, sounding rushed and frantic.

“I think he just has a concussion… How’s Jordan?” Jack asks, his words coming out too fast.

“He’s dead. Bullet to his chest and the explosion took off his leg,” Oluransi says, and Jack notices for the first time that his voice is shaking. 

“I feel like I’m going to vomit,” Bittle says. His speech is slower than usual, his accent even more pronounced. It almost sounds like he's tripping over it with his tongue. 

“You have a concussion. Did you black out at all?” Oluransi asks.

“No,” Bittle says. “Of course I know I have a concussion.” Jack would say Bittle says this confidently, but then his face goes green and his voice goes shaky. “I remember everything. Head hurts like hell, though.”

“Don’t run if you can avoid it,” Oluransi says. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack spots Bittle’s helmet sitting on the edge of the trench. It’s a little dented, but still wearable. There aren’t any holes in it, anyway. Jack grabs it, and gingerly places it on Bittle’s head as Oluransi helps him sit up.

“You need to wear this more tightly,” Jack says, noticing how the straps are slightly loose, even when he fastens them as tight as possible under Bittle’s chin. 

“Yes, sir,” Bittle sighs. He goes to stand, and Jack and Oluransi each take one of his sides.

The firing has died down, and now that Jack thinks about it, he hasn’t heard the anti-tank gun go off since it hit Bittle and Jordan.

As he’s surveying the area, Jack sees Davidson, his radioman, scurrying over towards him.

“C company’s on the line,” he says. Jack picks up the handset and places it to his ear.

The bridge is blown, the chateau is secured, and A company, along with the British paratroopers, has already taken the Merville Battery. 

“Our orders are to dig in here,” Jack says once he’s off the radio. “C company has mortars. We can reuse the trenches here, and get some rest.

Jack sets two watches. One watch to patrol the area and keep an eye out for enemy troops. That watch changes every two hours, so that his men can get some sleep.

He sets a different watch for himself. He has to keep Corporal Bittle from falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this engagement actually happened! The places and objectives are the real, I just added an extra machine gun nest for D Company to handle. Describing assaults on fixed positions is definitely not my forte (Navy brat - ships are just so much easier) but hopefully it's readable and mostly accurate.
> 
> Before you ask, yes I did draw a lot of inspiration for this chapter from "Band of Brothers".


	5. April, 1948

“He was brave. And a pain in my ass, occasionally.”

“How did you meet?” asks Alicia. In the photographs, Eric Bittle’s uniform clearly identifies him as American. Based on Jack’s dreams, or what she’s heard of them, Alicia had always assumed that Bittle was Canadian, a member of Jack’s battalion. It sounded like they had fought alongside each other. As far as Alicia knew, Jack’s unit had only ever been paired with British units.

“He was an American paratrooper. His plane took fire and veered out of his drop zone during the invasion. He ended up in ours. He and two privates were the only ones in their plane who survived.”

“Oh how awful.”

“It was. It was all awful. He came out of there with only a burn, at least.”

“But he found your company?”

“Yeah. Thought he was a German spy, to be honest.” Jack paused, smiling a bit at the memory. “But no German could imitate that accent-- he is, _was_ , from Georgia-- and one of the privates, Chow, well he obviously wasn’t what the Germans would think of as ‘master race.’ We figured out they were Americans and Bradbrooke put them under my command once we got to the rendezvous.”

“And then you took that chateau, right? I remember reading about it in the Gazette.”

Jack snorts at this. “Yeah, and the Germans recaptured it almost a week later.”

“All your work wasn’t for nothing, Jack.”

“Sure feels like Jordan and Desplat died for nothing,” Jack snaps back. Then he seems to collect himself.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

Alicia reaches out to grasp Jack’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter today!
> 
> Since Monday is Christmas, I won't be posting the next chapter as usual. I'll do my best to post it on Sunday, but it may come on Tuesday.


	6. D + 5

“Bittle?”

Eric Bittle swings his head around, his loose helmet straps hitting his chin. It’s D + 5, and the infantry has finally made its way inland, joining Jack and his tired company. The First Canadian Parachute Battalion is headed to some town called Breville, to help reestablish a lost British position. The three Americans, including Bittle, are just about to head out to rejoin their own corps. They’re catching a ride with some runner who will take them to Monty’s HQ, and then they’ll be shuttled with some communications to Bradley’s HQ, and from there, somehow rejoin the 101st. Just getting there sounds exhausting, and Jack’s glad he doesn’t have to do it.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” Bittle asks, standing at attention.

“I uh… I just wanted to make sure you were alright. That your head wasn’t giving you any trouble.”

“Oh! Thank you for asking, sir. I’m right as rain, all things considered.”

Bittle’s head doesn’t drop, but everything about him seems to deflate, and Jack knows what he’s thinking about. Knows what they’re both thinking about.

“What you did for Jordan. I can’t thank you enough. It was incredibly brave.”

“Didn’t do much good in the end though, did it?” Bittle asks, voice quiet.

“It’s not your fault,” Jack says, his voice quiet. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. You helped him, and all I did was put him at risk. _Please_ , Bittle,” Jack pleads, and Eric’s eyes go wide with surprise. “Please don’t blame yourself. You’re a great medic. I’m sorry to see you go.”

“Me, too,” Bittle sighs. “Wish we had more lieutenants like you. ‘Least the chip on your shoulder involves sticking it to the British.”

“As opposed to what?” Jacka asks, finding himself smiling.

“Oh, seems like every LT I’ve met’s had a daddy that got a silver star in the last war. You at least want to prove Canada can hold her own on your own merit.”

“Silver stars, huh? Sounds fancier than my dad’s Victoria Cross,” Jack says, almost in spite of himself, if only to see Bittle scramble for an apology.

“Oh! Oh I am so _sorry_ , sir. I didn’t know, I shouldn’t have--”

But he’s cut off by Jack’s laughter. After a moment of confusion, Bittle smiles, too, and chuckles.

“As my American lieutenant friend informs me, I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Quebec. You’re not the first to notice,” Jack says once he’s done.

“Well it’s not exactly polite, or any of my business.”

“I probably deserve it,” Jack says. Now he notices that the runner is starting up his Jeep, and Chow and Poindexter are climbing in. He only has a few minutes.

“Bittle, listen,” he begins, looking over at the Jeep. Bittle whips around to follow his gaze, and when he turns to face Jack again, his cheeks are red.

“You’re a great medic. Your company’ll be lucky to have you back. Let me know if any of those American lieutenants give you trouble, eh?” Jack says, holding out his hand. Bittle stares at it for a moment, before reaching out and grasping it, giving a pleasingly firm shake.

“Of course, Lieutenant. It was an honor serving under you,” Bittle says, pulling his hand away.

“The honor was all mine, Bittle. And since I’m not your commander anymore… You can call me Jack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter for you guys! I promise there aren't many other wartime chapters that are this short.


	7. April 1948

“We wrote, a little bit,” Jack says, taking Alicia’s empty plate. They’ve long given up going to the Parker for dinner. Instead, Alicia made grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, and heated up a can of tomato soup she found in the back of Jack’s pantry. They’d eaten dinner on the couch in their pajamas, Alicia listening to Jack haltingly describe a small, southern medic who made the sun shine.

“It wasn’t much, at first. I sent him a letter once I got back to England,” Jack explained as he walked the dishes over to the sink. “I didn’t think it would reach him, but three weeks later, just as we were about to ship back out again, I got a reply.”

“And you wrote for the rest of the War?”

“Yes,” Jack paused, turning back towards his mother. “Until he died.”

“When did he die?”

“The Bulge. I’d been injured, and he came to see me in the field hospital. And then… A few days later he…”

The words are caught in Jack’s mouth. He’s gone pale again, and he looks on the verge of tears.

“If you’re not ready, you don’t have to say anything,” Alicia says, pulling her son back into a hug. He doesn’t cry, but she can feel him shaking as he tries to steady his breathing. 

“I’m not ready for that,” Jack says, mostly to Alicia’s shoulder. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

“And that’s okay,” Alicia says, making no effort to hide her own tears. 

“I know he’s dead. I’m not trying to fool myself or anything.”

“Just because you know, doesn’t mean you’re ready to face it.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, Alicia listening to Jack’s slow, steady breathing.

“Does Shitty know?”

“Yes. He’s… He’s keeping the letters, until I think I can read them again.”

Alicia smiles at this. “Shitty is a good friend.”

Jack nods mutely, but he smiles. 

“Is he the only one that knows?” Alicia asks next. She loves her son, and will love whoever her son loves. But the rest of the world… The rest of the world isn’t always so kind.

“Everyone who was with us in Paris,” Jack says, taking a deep breath. “But other than that? No. It wasn’t unusual to have a really close… buddy, in actual combat. If people thought we were anything, they thought we were that. We tried to be discreet.”

“So Lardo, Shitty, Oluransi, and Birkholtz?”

“Yes. And now you and Papa.”

“Not Bittle’s family?”

“... No. They went to church every Sunday with a, uh, fire and brimstone pastor.”

“Have you thought about talking to them at all?” Alicia ventures, then quickly moves to clarify when Jack shoots her a horrified look.

“Not to tell them you were in love with their son, just… Talking with people who knew him may help you, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t say “give closure,” because she knows her son too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but things get meatier from here on out, I promise. 
> 
> I'm also going to post chapter 8 today. Yesterday's OMGCP update nearly killed me (where are Jack and Bitty?????), and I figure publishing another chapter is an appropriate way to express my excitement. 
> 
> If you're interested in reading more about same-sex relationships in the WWII American Armed Forces, I highly recommend _Coming Out Under Fire: The History of Gay Men and Women in World War II_ by Allan Berube.


	8. D + 100

“Captain Zimmermann, sir?” 

Jack’s head snaps up when he hears Private Laurent’s voice. He’s been enjoying one of his first quiet moments since he and his battalion got back to England, reading a paperback that his mother had sent him. Every day since their return to England, Jack’s battalion has been training, practicing maneuvers, drilling over and over again; all in preparation for their next drop, wherever that may be.

There’s also that fact that he’s been promoted to Captain, and is officially in command of D Company. 

“What’s going on, Private?” Jack asks, scrambling out of his cot.

“There’s a Captain Knight here to see you.”

It takes a minute of Jack to register the words, but then he realizes who Captain Knight actually is, and snatches his cover off the bedside table.

“Thank you, Private. He’s at HQ, right?” he asks, nearly knocking the poor boy over in his haste to get out of his hut.

Jack barely registers Laurent’s affirmative answer before taking off down the dirt road in the center of their encampment. Walking as fast as he can without actually running, he gets to HQ, a large manor house where his colonels also sleep, and pushes the door open, stopping only to show his pass to the MPs at the door.

Once he’s inside, he hears the familiar clatter of the typewriter from the dining room, now serving as a communications post. But right in front of him in the entryway, intently studying some dusty oil painting, is an American officer, double silver bars gleaming on his epaulettes.

“Captain Knight,” he says, striding up and saluting his friend. Shitty B. Knight turns around and answers his salute, but it’s almost secondary to the shit-eating grin on his face.

“ _Captain_ Zimmermann,” he cries, loudly and joyously.

“It’s good to see you again,” Jack says, dropping his right hand and extending it for Shitty to shake. Shitty takes his hand and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Good to see you survived Normandy in one piece,” Shitty says, releasing Jack after a few short seconds. “Care to show me around this fine Canadian camp?”

“I would be honored,” Jack says, making his way towards the door. He knows better than to ask how Shitty spent Normandy.

Once they’re out of HQ, instead of taking Shitty back down the main dirt path to the camp, Jack takes him on a more circuitous, private route. Still well within the camp’s confines, but much more private. Jack may not have anything to do at the moment, but he’s certainly not at liberty to leave the camp.

“I can’t say how good it is to see you in one piece, my friend,” Shitty says as soon as they’re out of the MP’s earshot. “You airborne divisions really ran the gauntlet.”

“I lost an entire section of my platoon before we even hit the ground,” Jack admits. 

“And picked up a couple of 101st strays, from what I hear,” Shitty says, kicking a large pebble out of their path. “I’m really glad none of them died. You would have caught hell if they had.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jack sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “We lost two good men during an attack on a chateau, and there was a moment when I thought we’d lost the American medic, too.”

“What happened?”

“He rushed out from cover to try and save one of my riflemen. The anti-tank gun hadn’t been neutralized yet.”

“Oh fuck. Did he get injured?”

“Concussion. He was fine after a few hours, still made me sick to my stomach, though.”

They trade news for awhile longer, swapping complaints about commanders, about lack of adequate support. They reminisce about Samwell for a bit, remembering how the Pond used to freeze over, about the awful food in the dining hall. Shitty congratulates Jack on his Military Cross, awarded for Jack’s work taking out the machine gun nest at the Varaville Chateau. Through it all, Jack carefully avoids asking for any specifics about Shitty’s activities. He’s in the OSS, and that’s all he knows.

“So as much as I love you, man,” Shitty begins on their third loop around the camp. “This visit isn’t just to catch up.”

“No?”

“No,” Shitty says, looking downcast for the first time today. “I’m being dropped into France. Supporting the Paris operation. I can’t tell you much else, I shouldn’t have told you that, even, but it’s likely I may not come back.”

“Shits,” Jack says, stopping their walk so that he can look Shitty in the eye. “I.. I.. I--”

_Shitty can’t die. Shitty is not allowed to die._

“Hopefully I won’t, but you never know,” Shitty says, shrugging his shoulders. “But… But just in case I do… If you make it through this thing, and I don’t, don’t waste it, yeah? I spent too much damn time lovingly dislodging the giant, Canadian hockey stick from up your ass for you to waste your time on things you don’t want to do.”

“Keep talking like that, and we’ll both be sent back home,” Jack says, pulling his best friend into a hug, and almost immediately he feels Shitty spurting out tears onto his shoulder. 

“I don’t really think I’m going to die,” Shitty amends after they pull apart. “But you never know, man. There’s this guy I work with, Johnson, says the weirdest shit, but the guy has mastered the art of being okay with whatever happens. I’m definitely not there yet.”

“You have to pull through, if only to grow back your moustache.”

“I’m not shaving for a month once I get demobilized,” Shitty proudly proclaims. 

Jack takes Shitty to the base mess hall, hoping to find two cups of the Army’s sad excuse for coffee. They’re in luck, and since the mess hall is blissfully empty, they take their cups to the corner table. They’ve barely touched their cups when one of the privates comes in with mail for the cooks.

“Oh, Captain Zimmermann,” the private says, stopping and saluting. Jack acknowledges the salute. “You have some mail, sir.”

Expecting another letter from his parents, Jack accepts the envelope from the private. Instead of his mom’s neat cursive, or his dad’s messy scrawl, the envelope, and the letter inside it, is in a loopy, bouncing print.

“Huh. It’s from Bittle,” Jack says, skipping down to the farewell at the bottom.

“The American medic?” Shitty asks.

“Yeah.”

“He wrote to you?”

“I wrote to him a couple weeks ago. I wanted to make sure his head was alright,” Jack says, skimming the letter. “Looks like his unit only just got back to England a few days ago.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He says he’s doing well. He got a purple heart for the burn on his face, though.”

“He’s in the 101st, right?”

“Yes.”

Jack looks up from the letter to see a shit-eating grin on Shitty’s face. The kind of grin he gets when he’s about to make Jack uncomfortable.

“You have a weekend pass, Zimmermann?”

“I mean, yes… Did you want to go to London or…?”

“Well I just _happen_ to know where the men in the 101st spend their weekends,” Shitty says, taking a sip of his coffee. “And since you seem to have made a friend that isn’t me, I figure I need to meet this guy.”

And that’s how Jack, despite his numerous protests, finds himself in Shitty’s jeep, on the way to Salisbury for the weekend.

“Can we at least see Stonehenge?” Jack pleads, eyeing a sign for it on the side of the road to Salisbury.

“We can. Once we find your new friend and take him with us.”

“We don’t even know if he’ll be in Salisbury, Shitty.”

“We have to _try_!” Shitty proclaims, sounding a lot more invested in this whole thing than Jack realized. At first he’d just thought it was a weird Shitty whim.

They rumble into downtown Salisbury, and Shitty finds a pub where they can stay the night. After they leave their bags in a room upstairs, they set out on “A Friendship Quest, Jack, where the fuck is your chivalrous spirit?”

“We can go to Salisbury Cathedral, Shits,” Jack says, eyeing the huge stone structure. “It’s a great example of English Gothic architecture and--”

“Zimmermann, you’re being a nerd.”

“Do I need to remind you that you’re also a nerd?”

Shitty eventually gives in, and he and Jack take a tour of the cathedral.

“Okay, _now_ we quest,” Shitty decrees, once they’re taken a tour and left modest donation apiece. “There are a couple of pubs the 101st visits when they’re here. One of my old classmates is a lieutenant in the regiment.”

The first pub, the King George, does not have any American soldiers.

“What if they’re already shipped out, Shitty?” Jack asks.

“Oh ye faint of heart!”

Jack and Shitty find a group of 101st airborne men in the second pub, the Artichoke and Hart. But no Eric Bittle. 

At the third, the Green Man, they find William Poindexter.

“Yeah, Bittle’s here,” he says, taking a sip of his Guinness. “He just went across the street to that bakery, I’m sure he’ll be back with Chow any minute.”

And, as if on cue, the heavy wooden door to the pub opens, and in walks Eric Bittle and Chris Chow.

“Why do the Brits insist on stuffing all of their pastries with ale and beef?” Bittle bemoans, looking down at the pasty in his hands. “You’d think at least someone, somewhere would--”

Poindexter clears his throat loudly, and Bittle looks up, notices Jack, notices Shitty, and snaps a salute.

“Captain Zimmermann! Captain...” he squints to read the name on Shitty’s shirt. “Knight.”

“At ease, we’re all on liberty,” Shitty says, accepting a beer from the barman and handing it to Jack. “We’ve been looking for you, Bittle.”

“Look… You’ve been looking for me?” Bittle stammers, his face flushing.

“See,” Shitty says, taking two more pint glasses from the barman. He takes one for himself, and forces the other on Bittle. “Jacky here told me about how you ended up with him in Normandy, and how,” Shitty drops his voice conspiratorially, his eyes darting around the pub, “you two are basically friends now.”

“Oh? Well I suppose we are,” Bittle says, shrugging his shoulders. He looks slightly relieved, like he was afraid Shitty had shown up just to reprimand him.

“And here I thought I was this man’s only friend,” Shitty says, clapping his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “But since you’ve managed to look past this cold, Canadian man’s cold, Canadian heart, then I figured I ought to buy you a drink.”

Shitty buys Bittle several drinks. At some point that evening, Oluransi and Birkholtz show up, and soon the pub is crawling with American and Canadian soldiers. Jack’s nursing his second pint of beer-- after his first one he ate one of the pasties Bittle foisted on him, so he figures it’s alright if he has another.

“I’m so glad you got my letter!” Bittle says, his cheeks glowing pink. They’ve been at the pub for almost the entire night and although Jack’s more than ready to go to bed, he doesn’t want to leave Shitty. Or Bittle, for that matter.

“Me, too. I was afraid you wouldn’t get mine,” Jack says, stifling a yawn. 

“I was kinda surprised you sent one, to be honest,” Bittle says. “Thought you’d be glad to get rid ‘a me.”

“And not hear the end of the Bittle-Phelps Jam Saga?” Jack says, grinning as he remembers. “Three hours of you talking to stay awake, and you still didn’t finish the story.”

“That particular family feud is still being played out,” Bittle says, laughing. “I’m sure my next letter from home will go into minute detail about who’s jam raised more for the church fundraiser.”

“Well you’ll have to tell me all about it in your next letter?” Jack jabbed back with a smirk as he took another drink.

“What makes you so sure there’s gonna be a next one?” Bittle says, raising an eyebrow as he takes a sip of his beer. Once he catches Jack’s stricken look, however, he nearly drops his glass on the table.

“Oh! I didn’t mean it like that! I meant it as… I don’t know what I meant it as.”

“It’s… fine,” Jack says after a moment. “We, uh, we can’t all expect to make it out.”

The silence between them is heavy and awkward, and Jack hates it.

“Oh! I forgot to congratulate you!” Bittle exclaims after another moment, clearly glad to change the subject. “I see you won a medal!” he says, pointing to the white and purple ribbon on Jack’s chest. Jack’s hand flies up to touch it of its own accord.

“Oh, yeah. I tried to get you one, too. For running out to help Jordan,” Jack says, all of a sudden feeling guilty about his Military Cross. 

“That’s awful kind of you,” Bitle says. “But don’t worry about me. You get it for the machine gun nest?”

Jack nods.

“That was really brave. I don’t think I ever told you that, but it was. It probably shortened the whole thing.”

Jack shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe. We had a goal, and other people depended on us meeting that goal. It wouldn’t have done to fail.”

“‘It wouldn’t have done to fail,’” Bittle parrots back in an atrocious British accent. “You’re already starting to sound like a Brit.”

“Probably a lot easier to understand than my usual accent, eh?”

“Where are you from?” Bittle asks. “I don’t think we ever got around to that.”

“Montreal, in Quebec,” Jack replies. “Though I went to the States for college.”

“What’s Montreal like?” Bitty asked, putting his head on his hand. “The furthest North I’ve ever been is Richmond.”

“The winters are beautiful. Everything is covered in snow and ice,”

Jack goes on to talk poetically, or maybe dopily, about his home city. Bittle responds with stories about his hometown of Madison, Georgia, and about all the different prizes he’s won at various southern baking contests.

Jack’s interested, he really is, but he can’t stifle a huge yawn. He looks at Bittle, embarrassed and ready to assure him that he’s not bored or disinterested. But to Jack’s surprise, Bittle only looks concerned, if a little indulgent.

“You look like you could use some sleep,” he says, patting Jack’s hand, which has made its way to the center of the table, near Bittle’s. He frantically withdraws it, though, and Jack wants to tell him that it’s okay to keep it there. 

“It’s only a couple hours ‘till sunrise,” he says instead. “And I want to drag Shitty out to Stonehenge for that.”

“Oh that sounds like fun!” Bittle exclaims. 

“You want to come?” Jack asks before he can stop himself.

Bittle looks startled for a moment, but then he smiles.

“I’d love to.”

Less than an hour later, Jack and Bittle have herded Shitty, Oluransi, and Holster out of the pub. They walk (well, stagger, in Shitty and the NCO’s case) down the street to where Shitty’s jeep is parked. Together, Jack and Bittle load them into the back seat, and then Jack takes the wheel, Bittle sliding into the passenger seat. 

They speed down the road outside the city, careful not to jostle the back too much. 

A Stonehenge sunrise, it turns out, is enough to sober even the most drunk of OSS officers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Shitty's friendship is one of my favorite things probably ever. In this AU, I imagine that Jack and Shitty went to undergrad at Samwell together, and then both went to Harvard-- Jack to get a History MA/PhD, Shitty for law school. 
> 
> The OSS was the Office of Strategic Services -- the precursor to the CIA. I considered making Shitty Bitty's CO, but making him an OSS officer means he has a bit more freedom to move around than any of the other characters. Plus this allows him to introduce Lardo and Nursey to this story later on.


	9. April 1948

“I didn’t know you got to see Stonehenge!” Alicia exclaims. “I’m a little jealous, Jack.”

“Shitty claims it has lingering pagan powers to make you sober up,” Jack laughs, remembering Shitty’s wide eyed wonder, and how the rising sun played in Bittle’s blonde hair.

“And you stayed in England until December, right? Did Bittle?”

“No, he and the rest of the 101st dropped into Holland for Market Garden,” Jack says, his face darkening. So many things had gone wrong with that invasion, and he’d been more than impressed that Bittle made it out alive.

“He won the Army Distinguished service medal there, actually,” Jack says. “For doing something similar to what he did for Jordan. Running out into the thick of things to bring one of his buddies back. From what he told me, an SS Division had taken them by surprise, and then it was reinforced by a Panzer group.

“But his company commander got hit, and Bittle somehow dodged shells and bullets to get to him. After stabilizing him, he carried him back behind their line. And then he went out and did the same for one of the privates. He got hit in the leg while he was carrying the kid, but he kept on running, even as he was bleeding.

“Luckily, it was just a ricochet bullet-- it didn’t go in too deep, but it was enough to cause some bleeding and leave a scar. All he did was wrap a bandage around it and go back out again. And then after the whole operation he got leave to go to Paris.”

“You tell it like you were there yourself,” Alicia says, smiling.

“Oh, well,” Jack says, blushing a bit. “He was such a great storyteller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New plan! I'm going to keep to my same update schedule, but post two chapters each update. The end of Year 3 filled me with a lot of fic ideas, so I want to get this posted and work on other stuff.


	10. October 1944

“You’ve been granted leave, son,” Jack’s battalion commander tells him.

Jack looks up from his desk where he’s been typing out a report on the progress of the replacements that have recently joined the unit. Since the Normandy invasion depleted their numbers, Jack’s been serving as acting battalion executive officer until a more suitable replacement can be found. 

“Leave, sir?” he asks, a little confused. He didn’t request leave, he doesn’t even know what he’d do with leave.

“You deserve a break, son.” His CO frowns, not expecting Jack’s hesitation. “You’re going to Paris for four days. Find some sweet looking French girl and blow off some steam.”

All Jack can do is accept.

Before he heads back to his barracks, he stops by the battalion post office. There are two letters for him: one from Shitty, and one from Bittle.

Bittle and Jack have been writing regularly since they reconnected in Salisbury. It’s rare a week goes by without some sort of letter, and Jack’s come to realize that he looks forward to them. He usually rips open the envelope as soon as he’s in the privacy of his own room.

But he hasn’t heard from Shitty at all since Salisbury, which was months ago.

Jack doesn’t even wait to get back to his quarters-- he rips the envelope open and finds a whole page of Shitty’s flowing scrawl.

He’s alive.

He’s alive and he’s in Paris.

He’s alive and he gave Jack his address in Paris.

Suddenly, Jack’s looking forward to his leave.

Now for the letter from Bittle.

Bittle is also alive. But Jack knew that before, why had he been holding his breath as he opened the letter?

Bittle had gotten a silver star for his work in Market Garden. He’s surprised. Jack isn’t.

_Bittle has leave in Paris._

Two hours after opening the letters, Jack is on an airplane.

 

“I’m technically attached to Eisenhower right now,” Shitty says, releasing Jack from a vice-like hug and indicating the huge palace of Versailles behind him. Once Jack had arrived in Paris and found a room, he convinced an American GI to give him a ride out to Eisenhower’s headquarters at the palace, where he knew he could find Shitty.

“But Ike’s away dealing with Monty right now, so you, you sad bastard, are in luck. I’ll get to show you around Paris. And I’ve kind of got someone I’d like you to meet,” Shitty continues, smiling almost bashfully.

“Yeah. You’re not cleared to know exactly _how_ we met, but Jack,” Shitty says, taking a hold of Jack’s shoulder and looking him in the eye. “I think I’m in love with her.”

 

“So you must be Jack,” a young, short Vietnamese woman says in French as she opens the creaky wooden door to her apartment to let them in. Her hair is chopped unfashionably short, almost like a flapper from two decades ago. But somehow the cut works on her, and her eyes are the sharpest Jack’s ever seen. It feels like she knows everything about him after a brief-once over.

“And you must be Larissa,” Jack replies in French, holding out his hand. She takes it and gives it a firm shake before stepping aside and ushering Jack and Shitty inside her apartment.

It’s a small affair, made smaller by the fact that most of the space is taken up with a giant canvas, and art materials are scattered all over the floor, albeit in neat, organized piles. In one corner, Jack notices a man lounged over a threadbare arm chair, a notebook open in front of him.

“That’s Derek Nurse. He’s a poet sometimes,” Larissa says, also in French. Nurse looks up from where he’s writing.

“Shitty! Good to see you, man, and so soon,” Nurse says in English, getting up and moving lankily over to where the three others are standing. He shakes Shitty’s hand, and then takes Jack’s.

“Nurse here was a few years behind me at Andover. He went on to Harvard.” Shitty explains. “He’s been, uh, he’s given us a lot of help in France.”

“I dropped out of Harvard in March of ‘39 and came here,” Nurse says, switching to French again and smiling ruefully, like he’s expecting Jack to judge him. His accent, Jack notices, is perfect.

“Well as long as you’ve helped Shitty, you’re a friend of mine,” Jack says, giving Nurse’s hand a firm shake. Nurse’s smile seems a little more genuine, so Jack turns back to Larissa.

“Where’d you manage to get that much canvas?” he asks. It’s lightly rationed in some of the Allied powers, and he can’t imagine trying to get hold of it in France.

“I’m resourceful,” Larissa says. “Art is art.”

“Shitty said you were an incredible artist,” Jack says, looking at a found art sculpture-in-progress. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since I got here,” he continues, motioning his head towards Shitty, who obviously has no idea what the two of them are saying, but can tell when he's being made fun of. 

“Bro. Lardo still thinks I’m cool. Don’t spoil it,” Shitty says, acting put-upon. 

But Larissa-- Lardo-- just chuckles. 

“Your French is terrible.”

“It isn’t French, it’s Quebecois. And yours is far from what they consider perfect on this continent as well.”

“Ah yes. Imagine what a Frenchman would say if he heard the two of us,” she says, grinning wickedly. “Something about his language being bastardized by two provincials.”

“What is the situation like in Vietnam?” Jack asks, genuinely curious. 

“The Japanese are worse than the French, but we’d like them both to be gone,” she says, switching to English and shrugging her shoulders. 

“Fucking imperialists,” Shitty adds.

“You’re American, you can’t talk,” Lardo says, patting Shitty on the shoulder. “So, Jack, how long are you here on leave?” 

“Just for the next three days,” Jack admits. 

“Well then we’ll have plenty for you to do,” Lardo says.

“You know, Jack’s an artist, too,” Shitty says, comfortable now that the conversation has switched back to a language he’s fluent in. “He takes the most incredible photographs.”

“When was the last time you took a photograph, Jack?” Lardo asks, intrigued.

“Umm.. four years ago?” Jack answers, scratching his head and grinning shyly. “Shitty’s exaggerating, I’m not--”

“But you enjoy it?”

“Well.. I...Yes.”

“I have a camera,” she says, walking over a small closet. She opens the door and pulls out a box.

“I was saving it for the liberation, but I missed that because I was helping this one out,” she says, motioning to Shitty. “How about you take the camera while you’re here, and I’ll send you the developed prints once they're ready, okay?”

She opens the box, and Jack sees an old Kodak Retina camera, and two rolls of film. It’s a little beat up, but he lifts it reverently from its box-- he’s missed photography more than he’s allowed himself to realize.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the camera and holding it close to his chest.

“Jack’s going to want to see all the cathedrals,” Shitty says. “And probably walk to all of the French Revolution sites.”

“Before we, uh, do that,” Jack says, fidgeting with the lens of the camera. “We need to find Bittle.”

“Bittle is here!?” Shitty cries. “Jack, why didn’t you say so!?”

“That’s the American medic, right?” Larissa asks. Jack doesn't ask how she knows who Bittle is. When it comes to bragging about Jack, Shitty’s never been able to shut up.

“... Yes.”

...

“I just wish we knew what hotel he was in,” Jack says, plopping onto a park bench outside the Louvre. “He could be anywhere.”

Jack, Shitty, Lardo, and Nursey have spent the last four hours crisscrossing the city, trying to find any trace of Bittle. So far, no luck.

“Hey, aren’t those your NCOs?” Shitty asks suddenly, and Jack swivels his head around to look where he’s pointing. Birkholtz and Oluransi are indeed swaggering down the gravel pathway, looking mighty pleased with themselves.

“Captain Zimmermann!” they both cry in unison, stopping to salute him. Jack straightens his posture and salutes back. “Guess you were on the plane that left just before ours.”

“Guess so, boys,” Jack says. Not that he’s not happy to see the two of them, but…

“You know, you two are basically divining rods for people,” Shitty says, stroking his absent mustache, the way he does when he’s thinking. “Have you by any chance seen any trace of Eric Bittle?”

“Bittle! Yeah, he’s here!” Birkholtz exclaims. “Staying in L’Hotel de Revenir, on Rue Clovis or something? It’s near the Sorbonne.”

“That’s… That’s where I’m staying,” Jack says in disbelief. He _can’t_ be that lucky.

“Let’s go there, then! Maybe the concierge will know where he and his buddies went.”

They all walk across the Pont des Arts, and Jack knows he _should_ stop and enjoy the view, but for some reason he has to stop himself from running ahead and leaving his friends in the dust. Soon enough, though, they’re back at Jack’s hotel. 

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur?” Jack says as he approaches the concierge desk.

“I can speak English,” the concierge tells him dryly, clearly not impressed with Jack’s accent.

“Oh, well… Is a Corporal Eric Bittle staying here? American? Blonde hair?”

“Yes, he just came back a few minutes ago. Room 312, next to yours.”

Hardly believing his luck, Jack has to remember to thank the man before striding up the stairs. He’s on the third floor before Shitty, Lardo, Oluransi, Birkholtz, or Nurse, and he knocks on the door of room 312 before he’s even properly stopped.

“Who is it?” a tired voice calls, but before Jack can answer the door opens, and Bittle is standing in front of him, looking a little worse for the wear, but thankfully in one piece.

“Oh! Jack!” Bittle cries, launching himself forward and wrapping his arms around Jack. Jack has to resist picking him up and spinning him around… Why does he feel the need to do that, anyway?

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me you were going to be here? How did you find me?” Bittle cries, joy evident in his big, brown eyes and in his expressive voice.

“I found out I was going on leave right before I got your letter” Jack says, not bothering to hide his smile. “Seemed silly to write when I could just get on a plane.”

“You are ridiculous,” Bittle said, slapping Jack lightly on the chest. “But how did you find me? No offense, but you don’t exactly come off as Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m actually your neighbor,” Jack says, feeling the smile on his face get bigger. “And I didn’t know you were here but, uh, Oluransi and Birkholtz did,” he finishes, blushing a little. Then he remembers that his two NCOs were in fact, right behind him a few minutes ago. He turns back around towards the staircase, and all of his friends are standing there, looking smug. Bittle follows his gaze, and then his face lights up even more when he sees everyone.

“Justin! Adam! Captain Shitty!” he cries, walking over and giving everyone hugs. “And you two are…” he says, trailing off when he gets to Lardo and Nurse.

“Bittle, this is Larissa Duan, our resident artiste,” Shitty says, “And this is Derek Nurse, our sometimes poet.”

“It is a pleasure to meet both of you,” Bittle says, shaking each of their hands before stepping back to stand by Jack. “So, I assume y’all have got a plan for tonight?”

“Beyond celebrating the fact that we’re alive and surrounded by beautiful French women? No, none at all,” Oluransi says, grinning. “Care to join us?”

“As long as I can bring Dex and Chowder, then absolutely yes.”

 

The night doesn’t quite turn out the way Jack thought it would.

For example, he doesn’t expect to break up an almost-fight between Dex and Nurse.

“I just don’t see why you didn’t leave France after the Nazis invaded,” Dex says, on his third glass of wine. His face, like his hair, is a flaming red. “Or why you didn’t come back to help your country after Pearl Harbor.”

Derek Nurse obviously doesn’t want to talk about this, but you couldn’t tell from his blank face. When Dex is distracted, he mutters darkly under his breath.

“Better off helping the OSS here than being segregated into a supply unit in the army.”

Then he downs a shot of alcohol, and takes a young Frenchwoman out on the dance floor.

Jack doesn’t expect Bittle to be an excellent dancer, but he is. He takes Lardo out onto the floor and he’s such a good lead, it looks like the music is flowing through him. The two of them stay dancing for four songs straight, until they’re both exhausted.

And he certainly doesn’t expect Bittle to agree to leave the party early. With him.

“Parties aren’t really your scene, huh?” Bittle asks as he and Jack walk along the dark banks of the Seine. It may be dark, but they’re far from alone-- fellow soldiers, in groups or paired off with beautiful women, stroll along the bank as well.

“Not usually,” Jack answers, a bit uncomfortable with the topic. “Lots of people drinking water masquerading as beer.”

“You can’t use that excuse this time,” Bittle says playfully. “Everyone back there’s working really hard to get drunk on crappy wine, not beer.”

“Well, maybe I just wanted to get to talk with you,” Jack responds, a blush rising to his cheeks. “And I can’t do that if half the women in the bar are begging you to dance.”

“Oh hush. There were no women begging me,” Bittle says, flushing.

“After you danced with Lardo?” Jack raises an eyebrow. “They were devouring you with their eyes, Bittle. And if I noticed, it must have been obvious.”

“Oh, was it? Heh. I uh… I didn’t really notice. I don’t really notice… women.” Bittle says, flushing even more, and looking sideways at Jack. Only his eyes dart up, flicking around Jack’s face, like he’s scared to meet his eyes. 

Maybe that’s why Jack’s heart starts fluttering, and why he feels like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach at the same time. _Bittle can’t… Bittle can’t mean him, it’s… He’s just modest. Why is he thinking these things anyway?_

He should say “Well, they definitely notice you.”

He should say “Birkholtz and Oluransi would love to set you up.”

“I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t notice you,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Bittle looks at him now, studies him in the light cast by the dim street lamps. Then he sighs, deep and heavy.

“We should both turn in,” Bittle says, deflating a little. “I don’t want to be the reason you stay up all night again.”

He smiles weakly, but his heart’s not in it, and leads the way back to their hotel.

They walk in silence, climbing up to the third floor. They say goodnight. Jack goes through his door, Bittle goes through his.

Alone in his room, Jack flicks on the light.

_There’s a war on. He can’t be thinking about… He can’t be thinking about this._

_What if Jack’s just putting words in Bittle’s mouth, or intent behind his words, because it’s the first time he’s been properly tipsy in years?_

Jack shoves these thoughts to the back of his mind. He can’t afford to be wrong, and he can’t afford to think about it. 

Jack forgot about the shared bathroom. He opens the door to it just as Bittle opens his, toothbrush in hand. 

“Oh, if you’re using the sink, I can--”

“There’s room for both of us,” Jack says, trying to smile. 

Bittle nods, and the two of them brush their teeth in silence, avoiding looking at the other’s eyes in the mirror.

“Goodnight, Jack,” Bittle says, rinsing his mouth and darting out of the bathroom like a spooked rabbit.

_Crisse._

So Jack takes his uniform off, hangs it neatly in the closet, and climbs into bed.

Sleep has come easily, recently. It’s not the falling asleep Jack has trouble with-- it’s what he sees once he’s dreaming.

He sees Jordan, falling from the tree. He sees it over and over again, the bullet that kills him getting larger, slower and easier to stop each time. He sees it barreling towards him, hears a siren going off, sees himself telling Jordan to scramble up there, sees--

“Jack? Jack. Jack. Wake up! You’re dreaming you’re--”

And then Bittle is right there above him, his eyes wide and his face illuminated by the moonlight, filled with concern and fear and he’s not dead he’s--

“It was just a dream, Jack,” Bittle says, running a cool hand down Jack’s face. “Breathe with me, okay. In--” Bittle takes a deep breathe in, and Jack copies him, releasing his breath when Bittle does three second later. They repeat the exercise together, until Jack’s heart stops feeling like it’s going to jump out of his chest.

“Crisse, I’m so sorry, I’ve been--”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Bittle says, brushing Jack’s sweaty hair away from his forehead. “It’s completely normal.”

Jack sits up, grabs ahold of Bittle’s wrist, placing the other hand on his waist and grasping onto the lean muscle there.

“You’re alive,” Jack says. “You’re alive, you’re okay, I didn’t get you killed, I--”

“Yes, yes I’m here. You didn’t get me killed, you probably saved me.”

“I got him killed though,” Jack says, heartbeat starting to raise again.” I got Jordan killed and Desplat and O’Reilly and that boy in the pillbox and I--”

“None of them were your fault,” Bittle soothes, stroking Jack's hand to help calm him down. “And you got me, Chow, and Dex out alive. And Oluransi and Birkholtz and Hallowell and Bertram and Connors and La Salle and…”

“I got you out alive,” Jack says, feeling like he’s about to cry. Usually he wakes up alone. Alone in his bed and the ancient furniture of the room where he’s billeted now. 

“Can you stay?” he asks, weakly.

“It’s a war, Jack,” Bittle says, sadly. “I can’t… You know none of us can make promises like that.”

“No I mean… Tonight, can you stay with me?” Jack realizes what he’s asking, how this could look, how Bittle could--

And Bittle’s expression softens.

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you need.”

 

Jack wakes the next morning to bright sunlight streaming through his windows. 

He fell asleep last night listening to Bittle’s steady breathing.

He’s currently laying on his side, his chest facing Bittle’s back. 

Basically, he’s totally fucked.

And then Bittle stirs next to him.

“I thought you’d never wake up. You’ve trapped me,” he says, sounding resigned to his fate. He squirms, and Jack loosens his arms (which he’s apparently wrapped around Bittle in the night). But instead of climbing out of bed and bolting for the door, Bittle just turns over to his other side, so that he’s facing Jack.

“You remember what happened last night?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Jack replies. “You woke me up from a nightmare. And I asked you to stay.”

Bittle nods, obviously satisfied at some level with this answer.

“But you got to sleep, so I should probably--”

Jack tightens his arms around him.

“Jack…” Bittle begins.

“Eric. What you were saying last night...”

“Oh, by the river?” Bittle interrupts nervously. “You should forget that, I was drunk, and I--”

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” Jack asks. 

“Jack, did you… You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Bittle asks, the color draining from his cheeks. “I could lose--”

Jack cuts Bittle off with a soft, tentative kiss.

“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to form the words and meet Bittle’s eye while he does. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

This time, it’s Eric who leans forward to kiss Jack.

 

The next forty-eight hours feel like something out of a dream. Except for the fact that Jack only met Eric because of this war, and the fact that everyone in their little group wears a uniform (except for Lardo and Nurse, of course), Jack almost forgets that there’s a war going on. That soon they’ll all have to part ways. 

And maybe never see each other again.

On the morning of his third day in Paris, Jack awakens, blinking as the soft autumn sun seeps into the room. Bittle is already up, and is looking at him sadly.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks, moving his hand so that it’s splayed across Eric’s bare torso in a way he hopes in comforting. Eric isn’t exactly small, but if Jack fans his fingers out just so, he can cover a good portion of his lean chest.

“What are we going to do when we leave?” Eric asks, his voice small.

Jack sighs, leaning down to hide his face into the crook of Eric’s neck. He wants him so badly. But. But there’s a war. And what can Jack offer him? They can’t get married. They’d have to hide what they are to each other forever. Hell, there's even a good chance that they won't both make it out of the war alive

“I don’t know,” he admits, pulling back, forcing himself to look at Eric’s big, brown eyes. “I can’t… I can’t offer you anything. I… I want you, but I’m scared that we’ll be found out.”

“Me, too,” Eric says. “If I’m being honest, I’ve known for awhile now that… Marriage will never be an option. For me. For us it’s not an option. But you told me you like women, too, you could--”

“... I don’t think I could,” Jack says. “Not… Not after you. Not just women, anyone. I know this is probably too much too fast and I--”

“It is a little fast, but… But I think I agree with you,” Eric says, blushing. It’s one of the most beautiful things Jack has ever seen, and he had Eric Richard Bittle in his bed last night.

“So, what are we going to do,” Jack says. As a plan, not as a question.

“Well, we need to survive this thing first,” Eric says, scooching even closer to Jack. 

“So we keep writing,” Jack says, stroking a thumb along Eric’s chin. 

“We keep writing. But we can’t say everything. Because I don’t know about you Canadians, but the American Army reads most of our letters.”

“So we don’t get specific. At least, not about our relationship,” Jack says. 

“So we keep writing. And, if by some miracle, we get out of this thing alive… What then?”

“I haven’t really thought about after,” Jack admits. 

“I know I shouldn’t, but thinking about what I want to do afterward… It’s kind of kept me going.”

“What do you want to do?” Jack asks.

“Go to college,” Eric says immediately. “People up in Washington are talkin’ about helping with that for guys who served.”

“College is good. I had fun when I was there.”

“I’m not aimin’ to get a masters or a PhD like you were set to do, but… Something that will get me out of Georgia.”

“Well, Samwell University is pretty far from Georgia. And I hear it has a great reputation,” Jack says, moving his head down so that he can kiss at Bittle’s neck. 

“Are you just saying that because you went there, or because it’s close to Harvard?” Bittle asks, sighing as Jack starts sucking just below his collarbone.

“... Can’t it be both?”

Later, they’ve both maneuvered into the bathtub in their shared bathroom. Jack and Bittle both sigh as they sink into the hot water-- it may be the last time for awhile they get to enjoy this luxury.

“So,” Jack says, rubbing soap into Bittle’s back and massaging the tense muscles there. “Tell me about the Silver Star.”

Bittle sighs, and tells Jack the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Lardo and Nursey are both members of the French Resistance. The found art sculpture in her apartment is made with the remains of a German tank she sabotaged. 
> 
> 2\. Jack must've used some hidden reserves of Zimmermann Charm to hitch a ride to Versailles. There wasn't really a public train option in 1944 and I didn't want to write a chapter of Jack hitchhiking out to see Shitty. Or find bus schedules from Paris to Versailles in 1944. 
> 
> 3\. I am waiting for someone to write a monograph or an article about how the US military's segregation policy dangerously limited the number of men available for front-line combat. As I mentioned earlier, the US largely segregated African American troops into supply units. By 1945 the US military was nearing a manpower crisis, as enlistment periods were ending and there was really only one pool of draftees left. At the same time, they weren't taking meaningful steps towards integration, which probably would have helped alleviate the manpower problem. And, you know, actually proved the values the US said we were fighting for.
> 
> Anyway, this is a long way of saying that Derek Nurse said "To hell with that" and joined the French Resistance instead. Now the Resistance, and 1940s France in general, had a different, and also very complex, relationship with race, and you can read about it in _What Soldiers Do: Sex and the American GI in WWII France_ by Mary Louise Roberts.
> 
> 4\. Shitty/Lardo 5eva


	11. April 1948

“I don’t really want to talk about what happened after,” Jack admits. Sometimes, when he lies awake at night, he thinks about how much he wishes he could go back in time-- go back and do something, anything, that would get Bittle away from what was coming. 

But he doesn’t know what he could have done, only what he shouldn’t have done.

“You don’t have to, Jack,” his mom says. She’s too understanding. She probably wouldn’t be, if she knew. 

And Jack can’t bring himself to admit to.. to _it_. Not to her. Not yet. 

So his mom leaves a couple of days later. Jack does let her frame a couple of the pictures, though.

A couple of days after that, Shitty comes to see him.

“So, you told your mom about Eric?” he asks, deftly removing the cap from his beer bottle and settling in on the couch. He’s still in his lawyer clothes-- a pressed suit, silk tie, leather shoes-- but he kicks the shoes off as he settles down on the couch. Jack sits next to him, an open beer bottle in his own hands.

“Yeah, I did,” he says softly, taking a drink. “She… Reacted well.”

“Well that’s good!” Shity exclaims, patting Jack on the back. “Do you feel better at all?”

Jack shrugs his shoulders. 

“Maybe a little. I didn’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about what happened at the Bulge.”

“What did… No, wait, you don’t have to tell me, I shouldn’t have asked,” Shitty says. He’s asked before. Multiple times. But all Jack’s told him is that Bittle died. Shitty can probably assume that Jack blames himself. 

“I brought it up,” Jack says, turning and looking at Shitty. “And you’ve been there for me, through this whole thing. You've been keeping to box of Eric's letters and his other things. You deserve to know.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Shitty says. “Unless, of course, the only reason you’re not telling me is because you don’t want me to tell you to quit blaming yourself.” 

“You know me too well,” Jack says, smiling ruefully and picking at the label on his beer bottle. 

They sit in silence for a few more moments, but Shitty doesn’t let it last long.

“So, since you brought it up… What happened at the Bulge?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ready for some feelings???
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been reading this fic. Your kudos and your comments mean a lot to me! Thank you for being so great. :)


	12. December 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning -- this chapter contains a panic attack, and mentions of death.

“Well you you didn’t get fucked up too badly,” Owens, the company’s new medic, says, binding a bandage around the gaping hole in Jack’s leg. 

“Well as long as it’s not too bad,” Jack says, letting out a breathy laugh to distract himself from the pain. It doesn’t help. His red blood is spattered on the white snow around his legs-- if Jack steps back a moment, pretends he’s not in his body, it’s almost beautiful.

“Gonna have to send you back to the field hospital, sir,” Owens admits. “If you’re lucky, you should be back on your feet in a week or two.”

“Tabarnak,” Jack swears under his breath.

His radioman calls for a jeep, and soon enough Jack is loaded onto a stretcher, and endures a bumpy, cold ride through the Ardennes forest back to the field hospital. 

It doesn’t get much warmer once he's arrived. Most of the beds are in a tent, and while the tent may protect the wounded from the elements, the few Sibley stoves placed at regular intervals inside don’t provide quite enough heat to warm anyone through.

“And what did you do to yourself, Captain?” a harassed looking doctor says, coming over to where Jack’s waiting on a cot by the door. He fingers at the morphine syrette on Jack’s collar.

“Shell hit my foxhole,” Jack grits out. “Doc, how long until I can get back out--”

“There’s some shrapnel in there,” the doctor says by way of reply. “You need surgery. We’ll see how that goes.”

And then he rushes away, and Jack is left alone, surrounded by the moans of the other wounded soldiers around him.

He can’t fall asleep. He should be falling asleep. The morphine usually makes his men fall asleep pretty quickly after it’s administered, why can’t he feel it? Maybe it isn’t working. It’s probably not working. He can’t feel his leg. That should be a sign that the morphine is working. But he isn’t falling asleep. He should be sleeping. He’s not falling asleep, so the morphine isn’t working. The morphine isn’t working and he can’t use his leg because he’s paralyzed. He’s never going to be able to walk again. They’ll take his leg off and then take him out of the war and send him home and he’ll never get a chance to prove that he can do this. And then everyone will know that’s he’s failed and _he can’t feel his leg_ and he won’t be able to climb the stairs to his apartment and he won’t be able to get down on his knees for Bittle ever again and they’ll take him out and send him home and everyone will finally see what they suspected all along that---

“Stick him with another syrette,” a voice says, suddenly right on top of him. It’s a woman’s voice. “He’s so big, the morphine probably isn’t putting him to sleep,” Jack feels a pinch somewhere on his body. “I want him prepped for surgery and brought in next.”

The voice goes away, and Jack drops into darkness.

 

Consciousness comes back to him slowly, and then all at once. His eyes shoot open, and above him he sees the olive drab on a tent, dimly lit by a flickering light. 

He’s still cold, but not as cold as he was when he got hit.

He got hit. He got hit in his leg. 

Jack remembers the hit, and his entire body jerks in response.

_I’m not paralyzed_ he thinks, relaxing slightly back into his hospital bed.

He breathes in and out five times before he lifts his torso up to take a look at his leg.

Both of them are still there. The left one is heavily bandaged, but it’s there, and it moves when Jack wants it to.

Maybe they won’t send him back home, after all.

He bends his left knee, and it still works. He turns his foot out. 

“You’re going to want to keep that leg still,” comes a woman’s voice, the same one, Jack remembers, that had someone stick another morphine syrette in him. She’s tall and lean, almost haggard looking. Still, her uniform is clean, and she projects an air of competence that calms Jack.

“Is it bad?” Jack asks. 

“You had some shrapnel lodged in there, but we got it out. Your medic put enough sulfa powder on you for a wound twice the size, so unless we screw up massively here, you should be safe from infection before we send you back to the convalescent hospital.”

“I can’t go to the convalescent hospital,” Jack says immediately. “Doctor--”

“Martin,” the doctor supplies, looking at him with a frown.

“Doctor Martin,” Jack continues. “I need to get back out. My men are out there, I can’t leave the company without a commander, we don’t have the numbers for it,” Jack pleads. 

“You really need to heal up with that,” Doctor Martin replies, unaffected by Jack’s tone. “It’ll knit back together, but it will heal a lot faster if you’re getting rest, too.”

“I’ll get rest once we’ve sent the Germans back beyond the Ardennes,” Jack says, trying to keep his voice calm. “It’ll be any day now.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” Doctor Martin tells him matter of factly. “Once we clear them out of here, you’ll just be sent somewhere else where they’re not retreating . You won’t get rest until victory’s declared, and who knows when that will be.”

“It won’t be much longer,” Jack says, and he feels more than hears his voice get softer.

“You need to rest,” Doctor Martin says, gentler, but just as firm as she was when Jack had started his pleading. “Try and sleep, alright? I’m going to give you another morphine dose, alright?”

Jack hesitates. Dr. Martin catches this.

“Taking the morphine to dull the pain won’t make you any less of a man,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not that,” Jack says. 

“What is it, then?”

“I can’t…” Jack started, pausing as he figures out how to phrase what he wants to say. “If I get started on that stuff, it’s... it’s hard to stop.” 

Dr. Martin’s eyes light up in understanding.

“I’ll just give you a half dose, alright? Just to dull the pain, and maybe lull you back to sleep. And I’ll make sure to take you off of it as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Jack says, wincing a little as she sticks him with the needle. 

The next time Jack wakes up, it’s to another wan-looking nurse offering him food. It’s an actual hot meal, not just one of the K rations he’s been living on for the past few weeks. Soup. And some slightly stale bread. 

He eats the bread and half of the soup before he starts to feel like he’ll vomit.

He’s lucky that he can feed himself.

 

Jack has no idea how long he’s been in the field hospital. So he asks Dr. Martin.

“You were brought in on Tuesday evening,” she says, checking his chart. “It’s Thursday now. You’ve been here for just a little over 48 hours. Don’t ask me how many hours it’ll be before you can go back to the front.”

Jack nods. It’s already been two days, and he hasn’t heard anything about, or from, his company. 

There’s probably no one to spare. The officers in the Canadian battalion are dwindling fast, so Birkholtz or Oluransi have probably taken over D company. They’re probably busy enough keeping everyone together, they don’t have time to write Jack.

 

The first three days, sleeping comes easy. Jack’s pushed his body to its very limits for the last six months, and it welcomes the chance to rest, even if his mind doesn’t. But for once his physical exhaustion overwhelms his brain’s desire to spiral.

On the fourth day, he stops sleeping for ten hours at a time.

He’s awake with the moans and the whimpers of men who are more broken than he is.

On the fifth day, a Red Cross volunteer brings him a book. It’s an American GI pocket copy of _The Great Gatsby_. 

There’s a stain on the back edge that looks suspiciously like blood.

 

“I can’t stop thinking about them. I can’t just abandon them,” Jack says to Dr. Martin on the sixth day. He can’t focus his eyes. He pretends like he’s looking at Dr. Martin, but he’s really just staring at her nose. At least, that’s where his gaze ends up when everything comes back into focus.

“Your wound is healing nicely, but you can’t rush back,” Dr. Martin says. She doesn’t technically need to check up on him as often as she does-- Jack is mostly out of danger from infection-- but she stops by his bed at least once a day.

“But I need to--” Jack starts, but before he can finish, the flaps to the tent burst open. At first he thinks it’s just the wind, but then a couple of harassed looking soldiers rush in.

“Doctor Martin!” calls one of them. He’s American, Jack can tell by his uniform. His nose is red and his eyes are wide with fear. And there’s a 101st Airborne patch on his arm.

Jack wonders, for the tenth time since he woke up, where Bittle is in this freezing hell.

“Yes?” Dr. Martin says, springing away from Jack and striding towards the door. “What’s going on?”

“We have a man who needs to be operated on immediately. Our medic is outside with him, he’s--”

But Jack can’t hear the rest-- Dr. Martin and the Americans leave the tent.

A few minutes later, one of the nurses comes up to his bed.

“You haven’t been sleeping, so we’re going to give you something to make sure you get a few hours,” she says. “Not morphine.”

She fills a syringe with a clear liquid, and injects it in Jack shoulder. The prick of the needle is sharp against his skin.

He doesn’t want to be put to sleep. But he also doesn’t want to stay awake.

The nurse makes an approving noise, and bustles away.

Jack is feeling groggy when the flap to the tent parts again, and in walks the head nurse and… And _Eric Bittle_.

“We don’t have much, but you can take some,” she says, showing him a cabinet where the nurses keep supplies-- bandages and syrettes, mainly. “We can give you five syrettes, six bandages, and two packets of sulfa.”

“Thank you, m’am,” Bittle says, opening the cabinet doors. “Y’all run a tight ship here.”

Jack can’t believe it. He wrote to Bittle the day before he got shelled. All he knew was that Bittle was somewhere in this snow-covered Belgian forest, too. Jack’s pictured him springing from foxhole to foxhole, gliding over the snow and ice on the ground like some sort of guardian angel. 

And now he’s _here_. His hair is damp with sweat and snow, which makes it look darker than normal. His ski-jump nose is perfectly red, and if Jack could stand up, if we wasn’t surrounded by other people, he would kiss it, poke fun at how Georgians wilt in the cold.

Bittle must be _so cold_ here.

Jack tries to call out, to him, but the words get stuck in his throat. The sleeping medicine seems to be working, it’s pulling him down . He tries again, but all he manages is a garbled croak, and it’s not even loud enough for the nurse who’s helping Bits to hear him. 

Jack tries once more, but now nothing comes out. He tries to scream, but he can’t. His brain can’t stay afloat. 

Another few frantic moments, and Jack feel like he’s a fish caught on a hook-- being reeled out of the water and flailing every which way. Desperate to get back in the water, even though the water is drowning him. 

Jack gives up, and lets sleep pull him under.

 

When Jack wakes up, it’s to sunlight flashing in his eyes. Forcing his eyes open, he sees the tent flap opening and closing as people walk in and out. There’s sunlight outside, the first sunlight Jack’s seen in _weeks_.

He doesn’t even bother looking around for Bittle. He knows he’s probably long gone.

“Well we’re not putting you on that sleeping med ever again,” comes Dr. Martin’s crisp voice.

Jack jerks his head towards her voice. She’s standing on the right side of his bed, clearly just finished examining the man next to Jack. 

“Why?” Jack croaks out.

“As you were going under, you thrashed around,” Dr. Martin explains. “Scared half the patients out of their minds, not to mention that medic friend of yours.”

“...Bittle?” Jack asks. Oh god, what if he _said something_ in his sleep.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“I saw him come in after the nurse gave me the injection,” Jack says, stopping to clear his throat. Dr. Martin hands him his canteen full of water, and Jack takes a grateful sip. “I was trying to call out to him, but I couldn’t.”

Dr. Martin nods. “Another reason not to give you that drug. I can’t imagine that was a pleasant experience,” she says, ruffling his hair. “He left a note for you, too,” she continues, fishing an envelope out of her pocket. “And I’ll give it to you once we take a look at that leg.

A nurse comes over and helps Dr. Martin remove the bandages from Jack’s leg. Jack’s had his dressings changed at least once a day since he arrived at the field hospital, so he’s used to this process. Once the dressings have been discarded, Dr. Martin examines the wound-- it’s healing nicely, if Jack’s any judge. It’s not infected, and the skin is knitting together well, with the aid of sutures. 

“If it looks better tomorrow, we can see how you are on crutches. I am _not_ sending you back to the line this week, Captain, but if you’re patient with me, I’ll see what we can do,” she says, smiling a little sadly at him. 

“Here’s your note,” she says, handing him the envelope. Jack waits until this nurse, Marnie, is done changing the bandages, and then rips the letter open. It’s scribbled hastily on lined paper, the kind that Dr. Martin has in the notebook she carries around.

_Dear Jack,_

_Lordy, you scared me! I saw you flailing around, and I thought you were writhing in pain. The nurses and the doctor tell me you’ve been doing fine, just a bad reaction to a sleeping med they gave you. They showed me your wound when I was here and I told them who I was, and you’re going to be okay, Jack. You’re going to be fine and up and about in no time. Just rest while you have the chance, okay?_

_I’ll hopefully be back here sometime in the next few days--- we have no supplies where we are, and one of my buddies got hit in a barrage just today. When I come back to get more things I’ll check on you, too._

_Eric_

Jack rereads the letter twice more, grinning more and more each time he reads it. Jack may not have been able to see Bittle, but at least Bittle saw him. 

It’ll have to do for now.

 

Instead of anxiously waiting for Bittle, and not being able to sleep because of it, Jack finds himself oddly calm as he waits for Eric to walk into the hospital. He sleeps through not just one night, but too. He’s able to walk around on crutches, carefully keeping weight off of his injured leg. A nurse hands him a blood-free copy of a collection of Steinbeck stories, and Jack takes his time with it, savoring prose in a way he doesn’t usually.

He’s thumbing through _Tortilla Flat_ when the tent flap opens, and in walks Eric Richard Bittle. His eyes go right to Jack’s bed, and, not waiting for the nurse to greet him, he walks over to where Jack is lying, propped up on actual pillows and wrapped in wool blankets. 

“It’s so good to see you awake,” he says as soon as he’s at Jack’s bedside. The relief is obvious in his voice, and he reaches out to take Jack’s hand. Halfway there, he realizes what he’s doing, and a look of panic flashes across his face. To save him, Jack holds out his right hand, takes Bittle’s hand in his, and gives it a firm shake.

“It’s good to be awake,” Jack says, smiling for the first time in days as he reluctantly lets go of Bittle’s hand. 

“That stuff they gave you when I was here…”

“They gave to me because I didn’t want any more morphine,” Jack finishes. 

“And they wanted you to sleep?”

“Yes.”

They stand in silence for a few moments. It’s not awkward, exactly, there’s just so much they want to do and say, but they can’t do it here. Not when there are so many people around.

Jack takes the time to examine Bittle’s face. The red on his perfect nose is fading, thanks to the slightly warmer temperature inside the tent. He has a scarf coiled around his neck, and the way it’s tied probably makes it easier for him to hunch down into it when he’s outside. There are wet patches all over the olive drab of his uniform where snow has melted, and there’s mud clinging to the bottom of his pants. His hands are still red in his fingerless gloves, there are two bullet-sized holes in his helmet. His eyes are as big and brown as ever, but he looks exhausted.

“What happened there?” Jack says, motioning to the holes in Bittle’s helmet.

“Oh,” Bittle says, hand flying up to touch the holes. “Just some shrapnel. Knocked the helmet right off my head. Didn’t get me, though.”

“That’s… That’s good,” Jack says, happy that Bittle seems to have escaped death yet again.

“What happened to you?” Bittle asks. Looking down at Jack’s leg.

“Shell hit my foxhole,” Jack replies, shrugging. “It’s not too bad. Dr. Martin has me walking on crutches now. I’m hoping she won’t send me back to the convalescent hospital.”

“You’re hoping she won’t?” Bittle asks, disbelieving. 

“Yeah. I want to go back to the line,” Jack admits.

“Why?” Bittle whispers.

“We’re short on men. It’s not easy to replace a company commander,” Jack says.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Jack.” Bitty says forcefully, leveling Jack with a disapproving glare.

“Yes, it’s not the only reason,” Jack hesitantly admits.

“You’ve won a Military Cross already, Jack. You don’t need to prove anything else.”

Jack just shrugs at this.

“Jack, we need to talk about this,” Bittle says, glancing around the tent. His eyes land on a stool next to a sleeping sergeant, so he goes, picks is up, and returns to Jack’s bedside, setting the stool down near Jack’s head and sitting on it.

“Jack, I don’t have much time,” he begins, his eyes sad and determined. “But you have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid. That includes going back to the front, especially if you can’t _run_ or even walk.

“I know you may not believe me, but you’re so much more than whether or not you can live up to your dad’s legacy. The sooner you realize that, the better, because I guarantee you that your parents, your friends, the entire nation of Canada, _me_ , would rather you came home from this mess than anything else.

“If you want to go back to the front, that’s okay. But make sure it’s for the right reasons, and not until you’re healed. You won’t do anyone any good if you’ve gotten yourself killed for doing something stupid.”

Jack just stares at Bittle for a moment. He wants to… He wants to do so many things. Mainly, pull Bittle on top of him and just... Lie there. 

But he can’t do that.

He can do it if they make it out alive, though.

“Alright,” he says, quietly. “I won’t rush back out there.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Bittle says, sighing in relief as he stands up. He glances around the tent, then leans down, takes Jack’s hand, and squeezes it.

“I have to go now,” he says, regret in his voice. “Annie promised me some more sulfa. I need to get that and go back to the line.”

“Alright,” Jack says, squeezing Bittle’s hand back. 

“If I don’t make it back here, let me know wherever they send you, alright?”

“Alright,” Jack agrees. He knows he should probably let go of Bittle’s hand, but before he does, he gives it one last squeeze, hoping it says what neither of them can say out loud.

Bittle reluctantly takes his hand from Jack’s, and looks back at him as he walks over to the other side of the tent, where the nurses keep supplies. On his way back out, he waves.

 

The following day, Dr. Martin lets Jack walk around on crutches outside the hospital tent. Jack’s careful to make sure he doesn’t put any weight on his healing leg, but it feels good to be moving again.

That night, he eats all of the food the nurses give him, and even manages to fall, and stay, asleep.

The next day marks his tenth in the field hospital. Dr. Martin checks his stitches, and announces that she’ll take them out at some point tomorrow.

“But then I want you around for another 24 hours after that, just so we can make sure it’s healed,” she says. “You can walk around a bit today-- just don’t go too far, and don’t go back to your line.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack agrees readily. As soon as the wound is re-wrapped, he stands up, and slowly, but deliberately, walks out of the tent. 

The snow has stopped falling outside for now, but a dusting of snow still covers every surface. Everything is white or black, or a wet looking gray or brown. Jeeps bustle on the main road, filled with haggard looking men in need of a hot shower and shave, at the very least.

Somewhere in the distance, Jack heads the sound of an artillery barrage.

He walks aimlessly, no particular destination in mind, but never far from the hospital. He tries to look past all the shivering, exhausted men huddled under every blown-out rooftop.

“Jack!” 

Jack jerks around, and sees Bittle running towards him. His clothes are stained with more blood and dirt than last time, but his cheeks are glowing red and he’s smiling.

“Bittle!” Jack cries, running forward to meet him and enveloping him in a hug. 

“Did they take your sutures out?” Bittle asks as they pull back from each other.

“Not yet. Tomorrow. And then Dr. Martin is sending me back to the line.”

Bittle nods. Jack can tell he isn’t quite pleased, but that he’ll accept it. 

“You come back for more supplies?” Jack asks, walking back towards the hospital.

“Yes and no. I had to ride with Jackson,” Bittle says, motioning down at the fresh blood stains on his uniform. “He’s gonna make it. Can’t say the same for Ramirez, though.”

“What happened?” Jack asks.

“Main artery in his leg was cut,” Bittle says simply, looking down. “Couldn’t save him.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say, so he puts his hand on Bittle’s shoulder and keeps it there, feeling Bittle shiver with cold and more.

“I don’t have long,” Bittle says as they approach the tent. “But I wanted to give you this.”

He reaches into one of his pockets and takes out a small, well-loved stuffed rabbit. Its brown fabric skin has faded in some places, and one of its ears droops. 

“This uh… This is Senor Bun,” Bittle says, handing the rabbit to Jack. “I’ve had him for as long as I can remember, he’s my good luck charm.”

“Bits,” Jack says, “I can’t take this, he’s yours--”

“Not permanently, of course,” Bittle says, smiling. “Just for two days. I’m going to come back for him, and you have to stay here until I do. No rushing back.”

Jack smiles, and accepts the rabbit.

“Deal,” he says. 

They’re interrupted from doing anything they might regret by a rude honk coming from a Jeep nearby.

“That’s my ride,” Bittle says. “I’ll see you in two days, Jack.”

“Can’t wait,” Jack replies, smiling and shaking Bittle’s hand. They both linger, and then drag their fingers together as they pull apart.

Jack waves as he watches Bittle speed off in the Jeep.

 

Two days, later, Jack is pacing outside the hospital, his leg free of sutures. Dr. Martin has cleared him to go back to the front. A Jeep is supposed to take him back to his battalion headquarters any minute now, but Bittle is still nowhere to be found. 

“Sir, we have to leave. The colonel is expecting us back at--”

“Just a few more minutes, someone’s promised me some medical supplies,” Jack lies, looking down the road towards the American line. This seems to shut the driver up.

Fifteen minutes pass, and still nothing. Jack is about to go find a radio man when another Jeep comes speeding around the bend.

“Help! Help! We need help!” cries the man in the passenger seat-- not Bittle. Almost instantly, nurses and a doctor come rushing out of the tent hospital. Jack notices that the back seat of the Jeep is filled with wounded men.

“There’s another Jeep about half a mile down the road. It took a hit. There are still some guys alive, we’re going back” the man in the passenger seat-- Jack recognizes him now, it’s Poindexter-- yells as the wounded are unloaded. Without thinking, Jack rushes up to the Jeep.

“Poindexter,” he says.

“Captain Zimmermann!” cries Poindexter in surprise. His entire face is red, and it clashes magnificently with his hair.

“Where’s Bittle? Did he--?”

 

Poindexter’s face sinks, and Jack notices tears welling in his eyes.

“Bitty’s-- Bittle got blown out of the Jeep. He wasn’t--” Poindexter takes a deep breath. “He wasn’t breathing.”

Jack’s whole world starts to spin, and then the barrage starts. German shells whiz overhead, and one hits the already bombed-out church a hundred yards from the hospital.

Jack feels a hand on his arm, tugging him away from the American Jeep.

“Sir, we have to leave now,” his Canadian Jeep driver says, yanking Jack back, away from Poindexter.

The world is falling apart around him. The world is exploding around him and Bittle is gone.

 

The world is still falling apart when he makes it to his line, even though the barrage has stopped.

His men are happy to see him. He’s happy to see his men.

Then the barrage starts again.

 

Almost half of D Company doesn’t leave the Ardennes Forest alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bulge was awful. 
> 
> But yes, that is our beloved Georgia Martin! I really wanted to incorporate her into the story, so even though the number of women combat doctors was limited in the WWII American Army, I figured it would be a good place to put George. 
> 
> This chapter is also a love letter to the Jeep. What a beautiful, functional machine. It's probably my favorite piece of WWII technology behind the de Havilland Mosquito, which was built using plywood, balsa wood, and glue.
> 
> I'll post the last two chapters on Monday! Thank you everyone for sticking with me through this story.


	13. April 1948

“So that’s how you got the rabbit,” Shitty says, eyes on Jack as he finishes up the story. “I always wondered where you got that.”

“I’d… I’d like it back, if that’s okay,” Jack says. He can feel himself shaking.

“Yeah, yeah whatever you need,” Shitty says, setting down his beer and pulling Jack into a hug. Jack buries his face into Shitty’s shoulder, times his own breathing to the beating of Shitty’s heart.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Shitty says a few moments later, once Jack’s breath has evened out.

“It is though,” Jack says, ashamed. “If I had just gone back to the convalescent hospital when I had the chance, or not made a big deal about going back as soon as possible, Eric wouldn’t have tried to find me.”

“He was getting supplies from the hospital, Jack. He would have been back, anyway, even if you weren’t there,” Shitty murmurs, rubbing slow circle on his friend’s back. For a moment, Jack feels awful. Shitty’s probably going through something similar-- he's had to have seen people die in combat-- but he’s not even allowed to talk about it. At least not with Jack. 

“But would he have come back that day?” Jack asks, tears welling in his eyes. “Would he have been on that road at that time and--”

“Jack, stop. You know as well as I do that that you can’t think like that in a war zone. Most of it is just… It’s just luck.”

Jack doesn’t quite agree, but he nods into Shitty’s shoulder. Maybe he can work on agreeing.

“But you said you wanted the letters back? And the bunny?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I can’t hide from the memories forever.”

“Do you want the other stuff in the box?”

“... Yes. Might as well.”

“Okay. I’ll bring them around next week. And Jack? Thank you, for telling me about this.”

“Thanks for listening,” Jack says, pulling back. He wipes his eyes with his hand, and then smiles softly at Shitty.

“I’m not changing the subject because I never want to talk about this, I’m changing the subject because I genuinely want to know about you and Lardo’s wedding plans,” Jack continues, actually smiling. 

Shitty grins.

“I’m flying over next month, we’re going to have a civil ceremony in Paris.” Shitty says, taking a swig of his beer as his smile stretches even wider. “Then we’ll have another one here to make my dad happy. And you, my favorite Canadian snowflake, are going to be my best man.”

“Of course, Shits. I’d be honored. And your parents still think that Lardo is French?” Jack asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Shitty’s good mood, as ever, is infectious.

“My mom knows, and she’s on our side. My father just assumed Lardo was French, so we’re not going to enlighten him until the certificate is signed. Then he’ll have to choose between his wife divorcing him and never speaking to his son again, or having a non-white daughter in law,” Shitty says, taking a long drink from his beer bottle. “My father is just… really shitty.”

 

The next week, Shitty comes by with the box of Jack’s war things. 

It’s mostly letters from Bittle. A few pictures. Senor Bun. Jack’s Military Cross.

The black velvet box with his Victoria Cross is under all of it. Jack hasn’t looked at it since the ceremony after Operation Varsity three years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we're almost at the end folks! Just one more chapter to go.
> 
> Operation Varsity was an Allied Operation in 1945 that aimed to capture bridges across the Rhine River. As with many airborne operations, things went spectacularly wrong (see Normandy, _Market Garden_ ), but the Airborne units, especially the British and Canadian Battalions, still managed to secure their objectives.
> 
> I started writing a chapter that was just Jack's experience in _Varsity_. The gist of it was that he was really depressed, didn't think much of his own personal safety, did something stupid, miraculously survived, and got the Victoria Cross for it. He now feels incredibly guilty about it, and feels like his motives were more selfish than selfless.
> 
> But this story was already really depressing, so I didn't finish that chapter.


	14. December 1948

“You’ll come to my show, right?” Lardo asks, handing Jack a vodka soda that’s mostly soda.

“Oh yeah, of course. When is it?” Jack asks. Winter’s come early to Massachusetts this year, the snow covering every surface and making almost everything, including the red brick of Harvard Yard, look brown or grey.

Jack isn’t all too fond of the snow anymore.

“Next Saturday. I’d offer you a ride out to Samwell, but I’m guessing you don’t want to go four hours early,” Lardo says, settling down onto the new couch in her and Shitty’s apartment. She’s lived in the United States, and been married to Shitty, for seven months now. Almost as soon as she arrived, and as soon as her father-in-law reluctantly welcomed her into the family, she found a job as an artist-in-residence, and occasional lecturer, at Samwell University. 

“Not like I have anywhere else to be,” Jack says, smiling and shrugging. 

Lardo just raises her eyebrows, and they fall into a companionable silence, content with listening to the news on the radio.

 

A week later, Jack puts on one of his nicer suits, slicks his hair back, and, almost as an afterthought, takes his old camera out of the closet and drapes it over his neck.

He drives out to Samwell in the dark of a New England winter evening, and tries not to think about the Ardennes.

Samwell takes his breath away in a good way. The Pond is frozen over, and the wrought iron lamps dotting the campus make for a very picturesque scene. He has so many fond memories at this place. He met Shitty here, played hockey here, took his first history class here.

He told Bittle that he should go here.

He finds the art building easily enough, opening the front door to the sound of chatter filling the exhibition space. The gallery is full to bursting with modern art. Modern art and people. 

He gets a club soda from the bar, and soon enough finds Shitty. He’s standing with Lardo, and the two of them are discussing something with a young student. Jack slides up to them, and he’s introduced to the Samwell student-- a theater major named Ford. 

“Your mom is the Alicia Zimmermann?” Ford squeaks out after Shitty mentions it.

“Yes,” Jack says, taking a sip of his soda and trying to remember to look at Ford.

“She’s a Broadway legend,” Ford continues, “I wish I could have seen her in King Lear, I heard she was brilliant. Did you ever meet Lawrence Olivier? I heard--”

While Ford rambles, Jack scans the room. Discreetly, of course, but Ford’s so lost in her rambling, she probably doesn't notice Jack looking around. There are plenty of people here - some faculty, kids in their early twenties, some older men milling around the room who are obviously students. They probably used their GI Bill benefits to attend Samwell after they were demobilized. Jack can almost imagine Bittle among them, pursuing that degree he talked about. In fact, one of them even looks like Bittle. There’s the blond hair, the height--

But Jack can’t let himself think like that. So what if one of them looks like Bittle? There are probably a million blond men the same size in the world, it’s--

But Jack can’t stop himself from looking again, especially as the blond man moves away from the group of older students, ostensibly to go look at one of Lardo’s paintings. As he turns, Jack notices the ski-jump nose. 

The man has Bittle’s nose. 

The man has the same color of hair Bittle did. His height is the same.

He even _moves_ the way Bittle did.

“Jack? Jack!” Jack is suddenly aware of Shitty calling him. “Jack, are you okay? You look like--”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Lardo interrupts, following Jack’s gaze to where _Bittle_ is standing. “Jack, get over there. Shits, look--”

“Holy fuck,” Shitty says, but Jack is already moving away, walking across the gallery to where Eric R. Bittle is standing, alone, in front of one of Lardo’s paintings. 

Jack thought he was _dead_ , how is he alive? And he’s here at Samwell, it’s almost too good to be true.

Jack stops just out of Bittle’s line of sight. He breathes. He can still see Bittle. His hands close around his camera, and he raises it to his eyes, taking one, two three shots of Eric Richard Bittle. Or the man he thinks is Eric Richard Bittle.

Jack breathes again.

There are five paintings on the walls around him, so detailed and so modern Jack can’t have possibly made them up.

The glass of club soda is wet in his hand from condensation. The metal bland of his watch is cool against his skin. His big toe is poking out of his sock, and Jack can feel the inside of his shoe with it. The breeze from a nearby open window blows on his face.

He can hear the chattering of people all around him. He can hear the shutter of someone else’s camera. He can hear the band playing in one corner.

He smells his own cologne and the biting smell of paint from a recently finished painting.

He takes the glass of club soda, puts it to his lips, and tastes it. It’s getting flat.

All of this is real. Eric Bittle is real and standing in front of him.

Jack sets his glass down on an empty table, and then takes another ten steps forward, until Bittle is just out of reach.

“... Bittle?” he says.

In front of him, Bittle jerks straight, like he’s been electrocuted, and he immediately spins around on his heel.

His face is a splotchy red, either from the cold or from crying. He’s put on some weight since Jack last saw him, like he regularly has three square meals a day-- but he's still muscular and lean. The scar from the burn he got in Normandy is still there on his face. His brown eyes are blown wide in disbelief.

He is _perfect_.

“J-J-Jack?” Bittle whispers after a moment, but then he can’t seem to say anything else. 

“Bittle, _Bits_ , you’re alive, you’re--”

“I’m alive? _You’re_ alive!” Bittle cries, and without warning he launches himself into Jack’s arms. Jack takes him, gathers him in, and then, as much as it pains him, lets him go. He keeps his hand on Bittle's shoulders as he leads him out of the main gallery space, down the long hallway, and into an open classroom. 

As soon as the door is closed, Jack spins Bittle around again, and pulls him into a kiss.

Bittle’s mouth is slow to open, like he can’t believe this is really happening. But then his lips part, and he sighs into the kiss, clutching at Jack’s lapels and pulling him close. 

“You’re not dead,” Jack chokes out, fighting back tears as he reluctantly pulls away. “Dex said that your Jeep got hit when you were coming to see me, that you weren’t breathing and I thought--”

“ _Jack_ ,” Bittle sighs again, pulling Jack back down so that their lips meet again. He pulls back just slightly after he’s kissed Jack some more, running his tongue over Jack’s teeth in a desperate way.

“I tried to find you. Someone told me that your battalion was decimated, that all the officers were gone.” Bittle breathes when they come back up for air. "And then he started asking me why I was asking questions and I--"

“We got hit in the same barrage that I thought took you,” Jack says, pulling back a little more so that he can rest his hand on Bittle’s cheek. “Almost half the company was killed. I was the only officer that made it out unscathed. But how did you survive?”

“The shrapnel missed all of my organs,” Bittle says, laughing as his eyes fill with tears. “I lost a lot of blood, but the surgeons sewed me up. And then they sent me home.”

“Thank God,” Jack says, pulling Bittle back in to kiss the top of his head. Bittle moves back in, not to kiss Jack, but to slot himself perfectly against Jack’s chest, and Jack’s arms instinctively move around him, keeping him close.

“How are you here?” Jack asks next. 

“I go to school here,” Bittle says.

“Even though you thought I was dead?”

“It was the closest I could get to you without actually being with you. And I thought that if I could go four years in a place that you had been, then maybe I could stop thinking about you,” Bittle says, huffing out a breathy laugh. “And it was far away from Georgia and anyone who would ask me any questions.”

“What are you majoring in? How long have you been here?” Jack asks, because he wants to learn everything about Bittle that he can now. He knows, he hopes, that they’ll have years, a lifetime, maybe, of time. Time for learning everything about each other. 

“Jack Zimmermann,” Bittle tuts, pulling back from Jack’s chest to level a disapproving look at the other man’s face. “I don’t see you for four years, and you’re asking me about my major?”

“It’s a legitimate question,” Jack says, planting another kiss on Bittle’s head, and then another on his nose. “But what do you want me to ask you?”

“Ask me to come home with you,” Bittle says. Jack can feel Bittle relax in his arms, like he knows he belongs there.

Jack loosens his grip, slides his hands down to Bittle’s waist, and steps back so that they’re looking at each other. Bittle’s eyes are big and brown and wide. The look on his face is funny-- he’s certain about what he wants, but not about what Jack wants.

“Eric Bittle,” Jack whispers, bending his knees slightly so he’s closer to Bittle’s height. “Will you come home with me?”

And then Eric kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah friends, we climbed this mountain!
> 
> I like happy endings, but I love happy endings when there's been sadness and hardship and stress to get to them. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading this sad, depressing story based on a webcomic that brings nothing but joy. I enjoyed writing it, and your comments and kudos really meant a lot to me as I worked through this.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is historical fiction -- there are some people in this fic who did, in fact, exist, and all the battles depicted are based on the Canadian Parachute Battalion's actual engagements. The chapter notes will include historical notes as well. I'm also considering posting my list of sources on my tumblr, so let me know if anyone would be interested in that. 
> 
> I'll update twice a week, probably on Mondays and Thursdays. 
> 
> And lastly... I know this is a fic about the Army in WWII. But considering what day it is... GO NAVY, BEAT ARMY.


End file.
